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Christian   Consolations. 

SEU.MiO.NS 

FURNISH  COMFORT  AND  STRENGTH 

TO 

THE    AFFLICTED. 

BY 

A.    P.^EABODY, 

PASTOR   OF    THE    SOUTH   CHURCH,    PORTSMOUTH,    N.  H. 


():tl)  BUftfon. 


BOSTON: 

AMERICAN    UNITARIAN   ASSOCIATION, 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

Crosby,  Nichols,  &  Co,, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press,  Cambridge : 
Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co.,  Electrotypers  and  Printers. 


PEIHCETOIT    \, 

\ 
THSOLOGIG&L,/ 


PREFACE 


The  following  volume  is  a  selection  from  the  author's 
common  parish  sermons,  written  with  no  view  to  future 
publication,  at  wide  intervals  of  time,  and  many  of  them 
with  reference  to  individual  cases  of  affliction.  They 
are  given  to  the  public,  not  because  they  are  deemed  of 
peculiar  value  as  discussions  or  as  rhetorical  compo- 
sitions, but  solely  in  the  hope  that  they  may  indicate 
the  true  sources  of  consolation  and  strength  to  the 
afflicted.  The  range  of  subjects  may  seem  wider  than 
the  title  would  authorize ;  but  it  has  been  thought  that 
an  additional  interest  might  on  that  account  attach  itself 
to  the  work  for  readers  in  general,  while  the  afflicted 
themselves  may  often  derive  more  benefit  from  the 
adaptation  of  some  one  of  the  great  doctrines  of  the 
Gospel  to  their  peculiar  condition  and  wants,  than  from 
discourses  which  treat  directly  of  suffering,  sorrow,  and 
death.     With  this  view,  the  sermons  on  the  Life  of  the 


IV  TREFACE. 

Affections,  the  Kingdom  of  God,  and  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per, have  been  deemed  no  less  conducive  to  the  general 
aim  and  purpose  of  the  work,  than  those  which  relate 
solely  to  the  discipline  of  an  afflictive  Providence.  The 
volume  is  submitted  to  the  Christian  public,  with  the 
earnest  prayer  that  it  may  be  made  the  means  of  con- 
veying to  a  few  at  least  of  the  sorrow-stricken  else- 
where the  consolations  which  it  is  the  author's  duty  and 
privilege  to  dispense  among  the  people  of  his  charge. 

Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  December  5,  1846. 


[Sermons  XXI.  to  XXV.  inclusive  were  added  in 
the  second  edition.  Sermons  XXVIII.  to  XXXIII. 
inclusive  appear  for  the  first  time  in  the  present  edi- 
tion.] 


CONTENTS. 


SERMON    I. 

PAGE 
OUK   NEED   OF   THE   FATHER 1 

SERMON     II. 
PATIENCE U 

SERMON    III. 

OLD   AGE 29 

SERMON   IV. 

A   PKOTECTING    PROVIDENCE     ,      .  .  .  .  .  .40 

SERMON    V. 

DESPONDENCY .  .  .51 

SERMON    VI. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIQHTEODS 61 


VI  CONTENTS. 

SEIIMON    VII. 

MEMORY 76 

SERMON    VIII. 

SUDDEX    DEATH     .  ......  .  .         92 

SERMON    IX. 

THE    TRANSFIGURATION        .......      108 

SERMON    X. 

THE    RESURRECTION 123 

SERMON    XI. 

THE   ASCENSION 138 

SERMON    XII. 

SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION 155 

SERMON    XIII. 

CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH 166 

SERMON    XIV. 

COME    Ul'    HITHER 181 

SERMON    XV. 

THE   VANITY   OF   LIFE 192 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

SERMON    XVI. 

THE    LIFE    OF   THE    AFFECTIONS 205 

SERMON    XVII. 

TRUE   LIFE 220 

SERMON    XVIII. 

THE   KINGDOM   OF   GOD 233 

SERMON   XIX. 

THE    MYSTERIES   OF   PROVIDENCE 248 

SERMON    XX. 

THE   GADAEENE   DEMONIAC 260 

SERMON    XXI. 

BEAUTY ,  •  .      274 

SERMON    XXII. 

CONTINGENT   EVENTS  AND   PROVIDENCE    ....      286 

SERMON    XXIII. 

HEAVEN 300 

SERMON    XXIV. 

THE    HEAVENLY    VINEDRESSER 316 


^'111  CONTENTS. 

SERMON    XXV. 

THELJliEMOnY    OF    GRIEF   AND   WRONG  ....      328 

SERMON    XXVI. 

COMMUNION   OF    THE   DEAD    WITH    THE   LIVING  .  .      340 

SERMON    XXVII. 
THE  lord's  supper 349 

SERMON    XXVIII. 

THE    soul's    SOLITUDE 363 

SERMON    XXIX. 

HOPE   THE    soul's   ANCHOR 377 

SERMON    XXX. 

THE    CLOUD    OF   WITNESSES 391 

SERMON   XXXI. 

AUTUMN 402 

SERMON    XXXII. 

GREATER  THAN  MIRACLES     .     .     .     .     .     .  414 

SERMON    XXXIII. 

ALL  POWER   god's 425 


PRINCETOIT 


THSOLOGICAW: 
S  E  E  M  0  N  S . 


SERMON    I 


OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHEIl. 

I   WILL  ARISE   AND    GO   TO   MY   FATHER. — Luke  XV.  18. 

We  need  a  full  perception  and  deep  sense  of 
God's  fatherly  presence  and  love,  more  than  all 
things  else,  to  keep  ns  safe  from  the  snares  of 
life,  and  to  make  us  happy  under  its  trials  ;  and, 
had  I  only  a  range  of  illustration  and  a  power  of 
impression  corresponding  to  the  glimpses  of  this 
great  truth  which  flit  before  my  mind,  I  would 
seek  no  other  theme,  but  should  deem  my  minis- 
try best  accomplished  by  pointing  you  contin- 
ually to  your  Father  above,  and  reiterating  the 
exhortation,  — "  Beloved,  now  are  ye  the  chil- 
dren of  God  ;  —  see  that  ye  bear  the  hearts,  and 
lead  the  lives,  of  children."  This  exhortation 
we  all  need.     The  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son 


2  OUR   NEED    OF    THE    FATHER. 

not  only  depicts  the  condition  of  tlic  profligate 
and  the  i /religious,  but  represents  too  faithfully 
the  state  of  many  Christians.  For  how  few  of 
us  dwell  constantly  with  Jesus  "  in  the  bosom  of 
the  Father  "  !  To  how  few  of  us,  as  regards  the 
flow  of  our  daily  thoughts,  could  God  say,  — 
"  Son,  thou  art  ever  with  me  "  !  Though  we 
have  knelt  before  him  in  penitence,  and  daily 
draw  nigh  to  him  in  praise  and  prayer,  do  we 
not  at  times  forget  the  joy  of  his  presence  and 
the  bread  of  his  house,  and  let  our  hearts  wan- 
der off  into  the  far  country,  and  hanker  for  its 
husks  ?  Still  I  believe  that  an  infinite  Father  is 
a  want  of  our  nature,  —  a  want  felt  by  all,  alike 
by  the  saint  and  the  sinner,  the  glad  and  the 
wretched.  Our  souls  are  so  made  that  they  can- 
not lead  fatherless  lives  without  a  sense  of  desti- 
tution and  loneliness.  The  language  of  every 
heart  that  will  interrogate  itself  is,  —  "  Show  me 
the  Father."  It  is  to  this  conscious  need  of  a 
Father  above  that  I  would  now  direct  your  atten- 
tion ;  and  I  may  be  able  to  interpret  feelings  to 
which  you  have  given  but  little  heed,  or  which 
you  have  experienced  without  understanding 
them. 

1.  I  would  first  recall  your  attention  to  seasons 
which  must  have  marked  more  or  less  frequently 
the  lives  of  all  who  hear  me,  —  seasons  of  inward 
uneasiness  without  any  outward  cause.  They 
come  sometimes  in  the  dim  solitude  of  evening 


OUR   NEED    OF    THE    FATHER.  6 

or  the  quiet  night-watches,  sometimes  in  the  yet 
deeper  solitude  of  a  heartless  human  throng. 
Though  only  voices  of  joy  may  he  around  us,  an 
unhidden  and  irresistible  melancholy  steals  over 
us.  The  dark  side  of  life  shows  itself,  however 
hard  we  strive  to  keep  it  out  of  sight.  The  out- 
ward objects  which  we  are  pursuing  come  up 
before  us,  stripped  of  their  gay  coloring,  and  in 
their  utter  flimsiness  and  frailty.  We  see  what 
mere  bubbles  we  are  chasing  ;  —  they  burst  and 
vanish  from  our  sight ;  and  when  we  look  again, 
it  is  upon  a  future  void  and  blank.  We  can 
promise  ourselves  nothing.  Weariness  and  doubt 
creep  over  our  spirits  ;  courage  to  run  the  race 
of  life  fails  us  ;  giant  difficulties  and  perils  rise 
before  us  ;  and  we  cannot  help  saying  to  our- 
selves,—  "How  happy  would  it  be,  could  we 
turn  our  faces  to  the  sunny  past,  and  lie  down 
to  our  last  sleep  before  the  clouds  now  gathering 
meet,  and  the  thunders  break  over  our  heads  !  " 
At  such  times  we  hear  from  every  connection 
and  pursuit  and  trust  upon  earth  the  admonish- 
ing voice,  —  "  This  is  not  thy  rest."  We  feel 
that  our  desire  and  toil  have  been  for  that  which 
satisfied  not ;  and  all  seems  "  vanity  and  vexation 
of  spirit."  You  have,  I  doubt  not,  my  friends, 
passed  through  such  seasons  ;  and,  unless  you 
have  come  to  God  in  them,  you  have  found  no 
relief  but  in  forcibly  diverting  the  current  of 
your  thoughts  by  the  bustle  of  business  or  of 


4  OUR   NEED    OF    THE    FATHER. 

mirth,  to  have  them  flow  in  upon  your  next  lone- 
ly hour  with  added  bitterness  and  gloom. 

But  these  seasons  have  a  most  important  relig- 
ious significance.  They  are  times  when  the  soul 
asserts  her  right  to  higher  goods  and  joys  than 
earth  can  give,  —  when  "  the  heart  and  the  flesh 
cry  out  for  God,"  — times,  too,  when  the  Father 
comes  forth  to  meet  us,  and  bids  our  weary  and 
laden  spirits  repose  on  him.  And  at  such  sea- 
sons, when  everything  seems  frail  and  fluctuat- 
ing, and  there  is  nothing  earthly  on  which  we 
can  rely  or  calculate,  we  do  need  an  unchange- 
able point  of  support,  —  something  on  which  we 
may  fix  our  swimming  and  bewildered  eyes,  till 
they  recover  their  steadiness  of  vision.  We  need 
the  unslumbering  eye,  the  undying  love,  of  the 
Almighty.  "We  need  to  have  the  voice  sent  home 
to  our  spirits,  — "  Fear  not  thou,  though  the 
earth  be  removed,  though  the  heavens  be  no 
more  ;  for  He  who  laid  the  foundations  of  the 
earth  and  meted  out  the  heavens  is  thy  Father 
and  thy  Friend.  This,  thy  God,  shall  be  thine 
for  ever.  The  Most  High  is  thy  refuge,  and  un- 
derneath are  the  everlasting  arms."  Nothing 
but  this  assurance  can  light  up  the  hours  when 
we  muse  and  are  sad,  and  change  the  spirit  of 
dark  reverie  into  that  of  praise  and  gladness. 
But  there  are  no  seasons  when  the  Christian 
more  heartily  enjoys  the  luxury  of  communion 
with  God,  than  during  these  hours  which  begin 


OUR   NEED    OF    THE   FATHER.  O 

■with  melancholy.  They  arc  indeed  the  soul's 
night-seasons ;  but  they  arc  like  those  glorious 
nights  in  our  northern  sky,  when  the  bright  bow 
of  God  spans  the  firmament  and  floats  among 
the  stars,  and  the  lambent  fires  from  the  horizon 
shoot  up  to  meet  it,  and  the  whole  heavens  are 
telling  of  the  glory  of  the  Most  High. 

Jesus  constantly  made  little  children  examples 
for  his  disciples ;  and  in  our  hours  of  weariness 
and  sadness,  we  may  well  take  pattern  from  them. 
The  infant  has  his  seasons  of  weariness,  when 
the  day  has  been  long,  his  sports  have  all  been 
tried  in  their  turn,  and  his  slender  resources  are 
exhausted.  He  grows  vacant,  restless,  and  un- 
happy. But  to  what  does  he  have  recourse  ? 
He  buries  himself  in  his  mother's  arms ;  and 
then  his  tears  are  dried,  his  smiles  return,  and 
the  fountain  of  gladness  wells  up  anew  from  his 
heart.  Thus  the  true  child  of  God,  when  daz- 
zled and  wearied  by  the  glare  of  day  and  the 
phantoms  of  life,  casts  himself  on  the  bosom  of 
his  Father  in  the  prayer  of  faith,  and  receives 
from  the  spirit  never  sought  in  vain  such  peace 
as  the  world  cannot  give. 

2.  We  feel,  it  seems  to  me,  peculiar  need  of  a 

Father  in  heaven,  in  our  communion  with  tlio 

fair  and  glorious  scenes  of  nature.     Did  you  ever 

see  a  little  child  taken  by  his  father  to  see  some 

glittering  pageant,  which   seemed   to  the   child 

immensely  vast  and  grand  ?     And  have  you  not 
1* 


6  OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHER. 

marked  how  the  child  will  at  short  intervals  look 
away  from  the  gay  show  to  his  father's  face,  as 
if  to  fortify  himself  by  a  glance  of  love  ?  And, 
in  these  glances,  docs  he  not  tacitly  confess  him- 
self dazzled  and  bewildered  by  the  sight,  and 
able  to  look  upon  it  only  as  supported  by  his 
father's  eye  ?  Not  unlike  emotions  many  of  you 
must  have  felt,  when  you  have  stood  by  the 
ocean  or  on  the  mountain-top,  or  when  you  have 
considered  the  heavens,  and  beheld  the  stars,  as 
"  at  the  commandment  of  the  Holy  One  they 
stand  in  their  order,  and  never  faint  in  their 
watches."  You  have  felt  bewildered  and  lost, 
lonely  and  desolate ;  you  have  been  overwhelm- 
ed by  a  sense  of  vastness  and  immensity ;  and 
a  silent,  shuddering  awe  has  come  over  you. 
These  emotions  are  the  child's  yearning  for  the 
father's  eye.  You  feel  thus  because  you  cannot 
support  the  consciousness  of  solitude  and  deser- 
tion in  the  boundless  universe.  You  cannot  bear 
to  find  yourself  mere  atoms  in  the  outward  crea- 
tion, filling  a  smaller  place  in  the  great  sum  of 
being  than  a  single  leaf  in  the  forest  or  a  drop  in 
the  ocean,  unless  there  be  revealed  to  your  dis- 
tinct consciousness  One  who  numbers  the  hairs  of 
your  heads  and  the  sands  of  your  lives.  Were 
I  an  atheist,  I  would  cut  myself  off  from  every 
grand  view  of  nature,  woidd  shun  the  mountain 
and  the  ocean,  and  shut  my  eyes  against  the 
crimson  sunset  and  the  gemmed  vault  of  night ; 


OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHER.  7 

for  all  tlicso  things  would  tell  mc  what  a  solitary 
being  I  was,  and  how  unsheltered,  —  they  would 
speak  to  me  of  a  stupendous  machinery  beyond 
my  control,  of  gigantic  powers  which  I  could  not 
calculate,  of  material  forces  which  my  boasted 
intellect  could  neither  comprehend  nor  modify. 

This  sinking  of  heart,  which  I  sec  not  how  an 
atheist  could  ever  subdue,  we  all  feel,  when  we 
look  at  the  works  of  God  for  the  mere  gratifica- 
tion of  curiosity  or  taste.  There  is  always  a 
straining  of  the  eye  and  thought  beyond  what 
we  can  see,  —  a  yearning  for  a  spiritual  presence 
in  the  heights  and  depths  of  nature.  When  we 
contemplate  the  heavens,  when  we  mark  the 
paths  of  the  deep,  when  we  ascend  to  the  birth- 
place of  the  rivers  and  the  fountains,  we  are  not 
satisfied,  unless  we  meet  some  hitelligent  re- 
sponse to  our  earnest,  searching  glances;  —  it 
wearies  and  repels  us  to  think  of  these  things  as 
mere  lifeless  forms.  The  inquiry  almost  momits 
to  our  lips,  — 

"  Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ?    Are  the  waves 
Without  a  spirit?     Are  the  dropping  caves 
Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ?  " 

But  how  does  it  fill  and  warm  the  heart  to  see  a 
fatherly  presence  in  the  glow  of  night,  in  the 
mist  upon  the  mountain-top,  in  the  waterfall  and 
the  ocean,  —  to  look  upon  all  these  forms  as  but 
the  varied  God ! 

3.  In  our  domestic  relations,  we  also  deeply 


8  OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHEK. 

feel  the  need  of  a  Father  in  heaven.  How  short- 
lived the  family  on  earth !  How  frail  the  tic 
that  here  makes  us  one !  In  the  most  painful 
emergencies,  how  little  can  we  do  for  each  other 
to  heal  disease,  to  avert  sorrow,  to  roll  back  the 
shadow  of  deatli !  One  after  another  of  the  cir- 
cle is  called  away ;  but  our  hearts  only  cleave 
the  more  closely  to  those  that  remain.  We  draw 
out  our  whole  power  of  love ;  yet  the  objects  of 
our  love  seem  the  mere  sport  of  fickle  elements, 
and  may  be  taken  from  us  at  a  moment's  warn- 
ing. How  deep,  then,  our  need  of  one  to  whom 
we  can  look  as  the  Father  of  us  all,  — to  whom, 
together  or  apart,  we  can  commend  each  other 
with  unfaltering  faith,  —  and  in  whose  house, 
though  the  departed  and  ourselves  may  for  a 
while  tenant  different  mansions,  we  cannot  feel 
divided ! 

To  a  parent,  above  all,  is  this  faith  in  the 
Supreme  Father  of  unspeakable  value.  To  have 
a  helpless  being  intrusted  to  one's  care,  with 
hosts  of  diseases  and  accidents  thronging  around 
the  very  gates  of  life,  to  know  that  a  rude  breath 
may  quench  the  flickering  vital  spark,  to  be  so 
often  baffled  in  one's  own  plans  and  measures, 
and  tlien  to  look  around  upon  the  multitude  of 
early  graves,  —  wlio  could,  in  view  of  all  these 
things,  find  courage  to  go  forward  in  the  discharge 
of  a  parent's  duties,  without  tlie  assurance  that 
the  little  flock  have  a  Heavenly  Shepherd,  whose 


OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHER.  9 

breath  will  feed  their  life,  whose  staff  will  guide 
their  steps,  and  who,  both  on  earth  and  in  heaven, 
bears  the  lambs  in  his  arms  and  carries  them  in 
his  bosom  ?  Then,  too,  Avhen  we  think  of  their 
moral  exposures,  of  the  snares  that  arc  laid  for 
them,  of  the  evil  that  they  must  encounter,  of 
the  many  whose  first  steps  are  in  the  ways  of 
death,  whence  should  we  derive  confidence  to 
place  them  on  the  theatre  of  moral  action  and 
discipline  without  trust  in  the  Father,  who  loves 
them  better  than  we  can,  who  will  make  us  suf- 
ficient for  our  work  if  we  lean  upon  his  counsel, 
who  will  not  suffer  the  prayer  of  faith  to  return 
to  us  void,  and  in  whom  we  can  look  forward  to 
a  distant  harvest  season,  if  the  seeds  of  Christian 
instruction  do  not  spring  up  and  bear  fruit  at 
once  ?  0  yes !  we  need  the  protecting  provi- 
dence and  the  regenerating  spirit  of  our  Father 
for  the  ground  of  immovable  trust,  at  every  stage 
of  our  domestic  experience,  —  else  we  might  well 
resign  our  charge  and  remit  our  efforts,  ex- 
claiming in  despair,  "  Who  is  sufficient  for  these 
things  ? " 

4.  Finally,  as  sinners,  we  need  a  Father  in 
heaven.  There  is  one  class  of  inward  expe- 
riences in  which  every  Christian  feels  this  n-eed. 
It  is  the  class  to  which  St.  Paul  refers,  when  he 
says,  —  "  Tlie  good  that  I  would,  I  do  not ;  but 
the  evil  which  I  would  not,  that  I  do.  I  delight 
in  the  law  of  God,  after  the  inward  man ;  but  I 


10  OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHER. 

see  an6ther  law  in  my  members  Avarring  against 
the  law  of  my  mind."  How  often,  my  Christian 
friends,  do  our  attainments  fall  short  of  our  aims  ! 
How  often  are  we  betrayed  into  sudden  sins  of 
thought  or  speech  !  How  frequently  will  the  very 
frame  of  temper  which  we  have  the  most  ear- 
nestly striven  to  subdue  rise,  on  some  unforeseen 
occasion,  and  surprise  us  into  some  form  of  speech 
or  conduct  to  be  looked  back  upon  with  unfeigned 
sorrow !  And  at  such  times,  it  seems  as  if  all 
our  toil  had  been  in  vain ;  and  we  are  ready  to 
cry  out  in  bitterness,  —  "0  wretched  man  that 
I  am !  who  will  deliver  me  from  this  body  of 
death  ?  "  Often,  when  we  look  back  upon  a  day, 
we  see  that  through  its  hours  the  spirit  has  been 
willing,  but  the  flesh  weak,  —  the  law  of  love  and 
fidelity  for  the  most  part  present  to  the  mind, 
and  yet  little  unkindnesses  and  negligences  strewn 
here  and  there,  testifying  to  momentary  victories 
of  impulse  over  principle.  With  our  holiest  ef- 
forts and  desires,  with  our  best  services,  there 
are  blended  so  many  imperfections,  as  to  leave  no 
room  for  a  self-complacent  thought,  and  to  fill  our 
hours  of  self-recollection  with  the  consciousness 
of  infirmity  and  short-coming.  We  find,  also, 
that  our  besetting  frailties  and  sins  often  place  us 
on  a  false  footing  with  our  fellow-men.  Under 
transient  impulse,  we  often  manifest  traits  that 
form  no  part  of  our  established  characters.  Wo 
may  have  hearts  full  of  love ;  and  yet  some  con- 


OUR   NEED    OF    THE    FATHER.  11 

stitutional  infelicity  may  often  check  or  pervert 
the  utterance  of  our  kind  affections.  We  may 
have  glowing  religious  zeal,  and  an  earnest  long- 
ing to  render  active  and  effectual  service  to  the 
cause  of  piety  ;  and  yet  diffidence  or  unreadiness 
may  tie  our  hands  and  palsy  our  tongues,  and 
we,  with  full  hearts,  may  seem  cold  and  dead, 
while  others,  with  even  less  inward  fervor,  can 
tell  their  joy,  and  bear  about  the  message  of 
their  God. 

Under  such  experiences,  we  need  to  turn  from 
our  own  frailty  to  our  heart-seeing  Father,  with 
whom  our  witness  is  in  heaven,  our  record  on 
high.  We  need  to  appeal  from  the  malign  judg- 
ment of  the  world,  nay,  from  the  self-reproach  of 
our  own  baffled  and  discouraged  hearts,  to  Him 
who  "knoweth  what  is  the  mind  of  the  spirit.'* 
To  him  we  may  say, —  "Thou,  0  God,  hast 
searched  me,  and  known  me.  Thou  hast  seen 
my  aims ;  thou  hast  beheld  my  failures  and  my 
transgressions.  Judge  thou  me,  0  my  Father, 
not  according  to  my  sins,  which  are  ever  before 
me,  but  according  to  my  desire  for  thy  service  and 
my  delight  in  thy  law."  How  quietly  does  the 
little  child  rest  in  the  spirit  of  filial  confidence, 
implicitly  trusting  his  father's  readiness  to  for- 
give !  He  may  often  have  failed  and  fallen.  Yet 
did  he  have  all  the  while  a  filial  spirit  ?  did  he 
desire  to  do  right  ?  was  it  his  prevalent  wish  and 
aim  to  obey  ?     In  all  his  self-reproach  for  his 


12  OUR   NEED    OF    THE    FATHER. 

transgressions,  however  frequent,  he  still,  -with 
the  rectitude  of  a  filial  lieart,  reposes  on  his  Fa- 
ther's love,  and  knows  that  he  is  forgiven  and 
accepted.  Thus  may  we,  children  of  God's  great 
family,  though  we  proffer  no  claim  of  merit,  and 
bow  under  a  deep  sense  of  unworthiness,  cherish 
an  undoubting  confidence  in  the  Father,  wliose 
forgiving  mercy  breathed  in  the  words,  and  flowed 
in  the  reconciling  blood,  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 

I  have  thus,  inadequately  I  fear,  but  in  the  lan- 
guage of  deep  conviction,  set  before  you  our  need 
of  a  Father  in  heaven.  Could  we  but  lead  a 
strictly  filial  life,  could  we  walk,  as  Jesus  did, 
ever  in  the  felt  presence  of  our  Father,  how  would 
the  spirit  thus  given  us  satisfy  our  worthy  desires 
and  repress  our  aimless  strivings,  sustain  us  in 
trial  and  comfort  us  in  sorrow,  quench  the  terror 
of  the  grave  and  make  death  an  angel  of  light ! 
In  God's  fatherly  care  and  love,  there  ever  comes 
to  us  the  voice,  —  "  Be  thou  careful  for  nothing, 
but  in  everything  give  thanks.  Cast  thy  bur- 
den upon  the  Lord.  Move  on  in  the  path  of 
duty  ;  and  calmly  wait,  till  the  Father  calls  thee 
from  thy  service  on  the  dusty  pavement  of  earth 
to  minister  before  him  in  the  starry  courts  of 
heaven." 

Brethren,  are  we  partakers  of  this  spirit  of 
adoption  ?  Have  Ave  felt  its  blessedness  in  our 
homes,  on  the  bed  of  languishing,  at  the  grave- 
side ?     How,  then,  can  we  be  indifferent  to  the 


OUR    NEED    OF    THE    FATHER.  13 

desolation  and  misery  of  those  who  live  in  spir- 
itual orphanhood?  For  them  let  us  pray,  let  us 
labor  ;  and  tlius  fulfil  the  law  of  Clunst,  and  man- 
ifest ourselves  tlie  true  children  of  Ilini  who 
liglits  his  sun  and  sends  his  rain  upon  the  un- 
thankful and  th^  evil. 


SERMON   II. 


PATIENCE. 

LET   PATIENCE   HAVE    HER   PERFECT  WORK,   THAT    YE    MAY  BE 
PERFECT    AND    ENTIRE,   WANTING    NOTHING. JameS  i.  4. 

I  NEVER  feel  more  strongly  the  divinity  and 
perfectness  of  the  Christian  system,  than  in  read- 
ing the  works  of  those  classic  authors  whose  mo- 
rality makes  the  nearest  approach  to  the  Christian 
standard.  There  is  always  some  rough  point 
which  juts  out  to  mar  what  might  otherwise  seem 
faultless,  —  always  some  essential  ^drtue  lacking 
in  the  catalogue,  or  some  idee,  like  Satan  clothed 
in  rohes  of  light,  placed  in  strange  companionship 
among  the  virtues.  I  have  of  late  read  much, 
and  with  both  pleasure  and  profit,  in  the  moral 
treatises  of  Seneca,  who  has  been  often  and  just- 
ly styled  the  almost  Christian  moralist.  But  in 
morals,  that  one  word  almost  is  a  fiital  word. 
Tlie  omission  of  one  cardinal  virtue,  or  the  glori- 
fication of  a  single  vice,  is  enough  to  give  sin  free 
entrance  and  an  established  foothold.     The  chief 


PATIENCE.  15 

fault  that  I  find  with  Seneca  is  his  omission  of 
patience  from  his  list  of  virtues ;  and  from  this 
omission,  unessential  as  some  mig]it  deem  it, 
there  flow  the  most  revolting  and  fatal  consequen- 
ces. He  gives  many  admirable  precepts,  worthy 
the  heed  of  the  Christian  warrior,  for  contending 
with  the  evils  of  life,  and  destroying  their  power 
l)y  exterminating  them.  But,  if  they  exceed  mor- 
tal strength,  and  cannot  be  overcome,  he  repre- 
sents it  as  beneath  a  wise  or  a  brave  man  to  bear 
them,  when  it  is  so  easy  to  leap  out  of  existence. 
The  duty  of  suicide  in  preference  to  unavoidable 
and  incurable  outward  evil  is  one  of  his  favorite 
topics,  and  frequently  forms  the  nauseating  close 
of  a  paragraph,  on  which,  up  to  that  point,  you 
are  ready  to  exclaim,  "  How  truly  Christian ! " 
He  is  perpetually  citing  as  the  paragon  of  virtue 
Cato,  whose  principal  achievement  was  his  delib- 
erate self-murder. 

The  very  field  of  discipline,  which  the  heathen 
moralist  thus  precluded  for  his  disciple,  is  that 
on  which  the  precepts  and  example  of  Jesus  are 
the  most  full  and  clear.  The  necessary  evils  of 
life  are  the  pavement  of  precious  stones  on  the 
highway  to  heaven.  Patience  occupies  a  place 
second  to  no  other  grace  of  the  Christian  char- 
acter. It  clothed  our  Master  like  a  robe  on  his 
weary  sojourn,  and  sat  on  his  brow  like  a  jewelled 
diadem  in  the  hall  of  Pilate  and  on  the  mount 
of  crucifixion.     The  Gospel,  indeed,  excludes  not 


16  PATIENCE. 

courage ;  but  prefers  in  honor  its  gentler  sister 
virtue.  Courage  is  an  occasional  act  or  effort  of 
the  soul ;  patience,  a  continuous  habit.  Courage 
is  the  mission  of  some ;  patience,  the  duty  of  all. 
Courage  courts  observation,  and  sustains  itself  by 
every  possible  outward  prop  and  stimulus ;  pa- 
tience is  lonely  and  quiet,  —  its  warfare  is  with- 
in^—  its  victory,  without  sound  of  trimipet,  for 
the  eye  of  God  and  the  award  of  heaven.  Cour- 
age may  give  its  strength  to  evil,  and  may  nerve 
the  arm  of  the  thief  or  the  manslayer  ;  patience 
dwells  only  in  the  bosom  of  piety,  and  always  be- 
holds the  face  of  her  Father  in  heaven. 

I  now  ask  your  attention  to  a  few  remarks  de- 
signed to  illustrate  the  necessity  and  the  means 
of  cultivating  the  virtue  of  patience,  and  the 
mode  in  which  it  so  reacts  upon  the  whole  char- 
acter as  to  make  the  patient  disciple  *'  perfect 
and  entire,  lacking  nothing." 

The  necessity  of  this  virtue  can  hardly  be  over- 
rated. Our  Saviour  said,  with  literal  truth,  — 
"  In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation."  Who 
escapes  it  ?  No  one  can  feel  more  fully  than  I 
do,  that  God  has  placed  us  in  a  good  world,  and 
has  put  within  the  reach  of  us  all  a  large  prepon- 
derance of  happiness  over  misery.  With  most  of 
us,  life  rolls  on  calmly  through  childhood  and 
early  youth,  and  for  long  portions  of  our  later 
years.  But  few  approach  middle  life  Avitliout 
some  experience  of  sorrow,  —  seasons  of  sickness 


PATIENCE.  17 

and  infirmity,  heavy  disappointments,  weary  vig- 
ils with  suffering  parents,  chikh^en,  and  kindred, 
—  times  when  the  floods  lift  their  angry  A'oico 
and  the  billows  break  over  us,  —  times  when 
nothing  seems  stable  but  the  throne  of  God  and 
the  hope  of  heaven.  And  these  visitations  of 
Providence  are  not  momentary,  so  that  they  can 
be  met  by  a  sudden  and  defiant  effort ;  but  they 
are  prolonged,  continuous,  spreading  out  into  the 
future,  and  the  end  is  not  yet,  but  is  beyond  our 
foresiglit  and  calculation.  For  some,  also,  the 
sun  is  darkened  long  before  midday;  and  they, 
though  not  without  kind  reliefs  and  rich  bless- 
ings, must  move  on  beneath  clouds  which  only 
the  resurrection  morning  will  scatter.  Poverty, 
desolation,  or  chronic  infirmity  is  their  appointed 
sphere  of  duty,  their  only  portion,  till  they  ex- 
change it  for  Abraham's  bosom  and  the  inherit- 
ance of  the  righteous.  And  these  darker  scenes 
and  portions  must  be  met  either  in  ceaseless  dis- 
content, murmuring,  and  distrust,  or  in  that  spir- 
it of  quiet,  trustful  patience,  which  says,  —  "Fa- 
ther, not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done !"  But  for 
those  that  murmur,  blessings  left  and  comforts 
sent  are  wasted,  and  there  hangs  over  their  dwell- 
ings and  about  their  spirits  an  impenetrable 
gloom  ;  while  to  the  patient  and  confiding  soul 
light  arises  in  darkness,  —  the  cloud  cannot  hang 
so  thick  and  heavy,  but  that  rays  of  divine  love 
struggle  through  its  fissures  and  fringe  its  edges, 

2* 


18  PATIENCE. 

—  it  is  spanned  by  the  bow  of  promise,  vitli  the 
inscription,  —  "I  will  never  leave  nor  forsake 
thee." 

Among  the  means  of  cherishing  patience,  I 
would  first  name  a  deep  and  enduring  sense  of 
the  love  of  God,  and  of  the  merciful  purpose  of 
all  his  dispensations  This  we  all  confess  in 
words  ;  but  we  must  feel  it.  Our  theoretical 
faith  is  right  and  sound ;  the  great  object  is  to 
bring  our  feelings  up  to  the  standard  of  our 
avowed  belief.  This  faith  must  work  itself  into 
the  whole  texture  of  our  souls,  pervade  and  fill 
our  hearts,  and  be  as  the  life-blood  of  our  inward 
being.     "  God  is  love,"  —  "  God  is  our  Father," 

—  these  divine  words  must  enter  into  our  con- 
sciousness, be  inwardly  digested  and  assimilated. 
And  this  can  best  be  done  in  those  early,  happy 
days  which  are  bathed  in  the  Creator's  smile,  on 
all  whose  moments  hang  the  dew-drops  of  his 
blessing.  This  needed  faith  in  a  fatherly  Pro^d- 
dence  parents  should  teach  their  children,  when 
they  are  full  of  joy ;  and  the  young,  prosperous, 
and  always  happy  should  grow  into  it  more  and 
more  in  daily  adoration  and  thanksgiving.  We 
should  look  back  upon  the  way  in  which  our  Fa- 
ther has  led  us,  and  mark  its  special  deliverances 
and  favors.  AVe  should  look  around  us,  and  trace 
back  through  their  earthly  sources  to  their  eter- 
nal fountain  the  streams  of  mercy  flowing  ho\n\ 
\y  upon  our  homes  and  our  daily  walks.     There 


PATIENCE.  19 

lias  been,  there  is,  enough  in  the  life  of  each  of 
us,  if  we  would  only  ponder  upon  it,  to  draw 
forth  the  confession,  with  gratitude  too  full  for 
utterance,  —  "  God  has  nourished  me  as  a  child, 
—  in  ways  and  times  without  number  he  has  re- 
vealed himself  as  my  Father  and  my  friend,  —  I 
individually  am  the  distinct  object  of  his  care 
and  love,  —  how  precious  are  thy  thoughts  of 
mercy  towards  me  !  how  great  is  the  sum  of 
them  !  —  should  I  count  them,  they  are  more  in 
number  than  the  sands  of  the  sea." 

This  spirit  will  give  us  patience,  when  the  evil 
days  come.  We  shall  know  that  disease  and 
affliction  are  but  altered  forms  of  mercy,  or- 
dained with  kind  purpose  and  for  a  blessed  min- 
istry, —  that  outward  trial  is  sent  to  heal  inward 
disease,  to  establish  the  soul  in  firmer  health  and 
fuller  strength,  to  shed  into  it  the  peace  of  God 
and  the  spirit  of  heaven.  We  shall  lean  in  faith 
upon  a  Father,  whose  ways  seem  dark  to  us- only 
because  we  are  children  and  fall  short  of  our 
Father's  wisdom.  We  shall  calmly  yield  our- 
selves to  the  guidance  of  Him  whose  appointed 
way  must  needs  be  the  surest,  safest  path  to 
heaven.  Our  trust  will  be  confirmed  by  exercise 
and  deepened  by  experience,  so  that  every  new 
period  of  trial  will  give  to  patience  its  more  and 
more  perfect  work.  Our  early  trials,  if  submis- 
sively borne,  will  leave  in  our  hearts  a  work  of 
grace,  which  we  can  mark  and  recognize.     We 


20  PATIENCE. 

shall  see  and  know  that  they  made  us  better,  — 
that  they  made  our  prayers  more  fervent  and 
more  constant,  our  love  to  man  more  tender  and 
enduring,  our  sympathies  quicker  and  stronger, 
our  tempers  more  meek  and  gentle,  our  tastes 
more  pure  and  spiritual.  We  shall  bear  so  con- 
sciously these  blessed  fruits  of  an  afflictive  Provi- 
dence, as  to  leave  no  room  for  doubt  and  mis- 
giving, and  to  fortify  our  faith  in  the  word  of 
God  by  a  voice  within,  which  we  can  neither 
suppress  nor  gainsay. 

Again,  patience  derives  nourishment  from  the 
hope  of  heaven,  —  not  from  the  mere  belief  in 
immortality,  but  from  the  personal  appropriation 
and  consciousness  of  it.  What  makes  courage 
a  much  easier  virtue  than  patience  is,  that  it  is 
called  into  exercise  for  a  crisis  which  will  soon 
be  passed,  and  beyond  Avhicli  hope  easily  extends ; 
while  patience  belongs  to  those  jDrotracted  trials 
which  offer  no  immediate  or  definite  hope  of  their 
termination.  We  think  little  of  a  rough  road  or 
a  bad  inn,  if  the  end  of  our  journey  is  near  and 
attractive.  We  cheerfully  encounter  temporary 
inconveniences  and  troubles,  if  fully  assured  that 
they  are  to  be  followed  by  long  and  unbroken 
quietness  and  prosperity.  Did  we  let  our  con- 
templations rest  habitually  on  eternity,  all  our 
earthly  trials  would  in  like  manner  seem  light 
and  short,  and  not  worthy  to  be  compared  with 
the  joy  set  before  us.     This  consideration  enters 


PATIENCE.  21 

largely  into  all  patient  and  submissive  suffering. 
Many  tliere  are,  indeed,  who  well  know  that  their 
first  bed  of  rest  will  be  the  grave,  but  who  are 
made  cheerful  and  happy  by  a  near  and  constant 
view  of  the  home  where  sickness,  pain,  and  sor- 
row can  find  no  entrance. 

Patience  receives,  also,  ample  support  from  the 
life  and  example  of  Jesus.  In  him  the  disciple 
learns  that  wliom  the  Lord  loves  he  chastens. 
He  sees  that  trials  cannot  be  sent  in  anger,  when 
the  best  beloved  Son  had  their  full  weight  laid 
upon  him.  He  feels  strengthened  to  tread  the 
path  and  to  bear  the  lot  which  Jesus  has  made 
illustrious  by  his  own  victory  and  triumph.  Pov- 
erty, desolation,  acute  bodily  suffering,  have  all 
been  consecrated  by  his  homeless  wanderings,  his 
rejection,  agony,  and  cross. 

None  find  themselves  so  severely  afflicted,  but 
that  in  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  toilsome 
and  painful  pilgrimage  they  can  see  traces  of  yet 
severer  suffering  and  agony.  Yet  we  behold  him 
calm,  patient,  submissive,  trustful.  Not  a  mur- 
mur escapes  him,  not  an  unconditional  prayer  for 
relief.  His  patience  is  tried  at  every  point,  both 
by  the  mysterious  hand  of  an  afflictive  Provi- 
dence, and  by  the  malice  and  scorn  of  the  wick- 
ed. He  encounters  ingratitude  in  its  most  re- 
volting forms,  persecution  from  those  whom  he 
had  striven  to  bless,  insult  and  ignominy  alike 
from  the  supercilious  great  and  the  sycophantic 


22  PATIENCE. 

mob.  The  Jew  gives  him  over  to  the  Gentile; 
the  Gentile  hands  him  back,  scourged  and  buffet- 
ed, to  the  Jew ;  and  the  Jew  again  transfers  him, 
lacerated  and  mangled,  to  the  foreign  execution- 
er. But,  beneath  their  jeers  and  taunts,  tossed 
from  one  coarse  hand  to  another  in  the  crowd, 
grasping  the  mimic  sceptre,  with  his  temples  torn 
by  the  thorns,  he  wears  in  his  unmoved  serenity 
a  kingly  aspect,  which  strikes  admiration  and 
awe  into  many  rude  hearts,  and  constrains  the 
man  of  blood,  who  watches  by  the  cross,  to  ex- 
claim, —  "  Surely  this  was  the  Son  of  God." 
This  beautiful  example  of  patience  the  Christian 
contemplates,  till  it  transfuses  itself  into  his  own 
soul,  till  the  cross  gives  him  strength,  till  he  can 
enter  into  the  secret  of  the  Saviour's  submission, 
peace,  and  joy,  and  can  say  with  him,  —  "  Xot  as 
I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt !  " 

But  this  life  is  a  school  for  heaven,  and  we  are 
accustomed  to  believe  that  we  learn  lessons  here 
to  practise  there,  —  that  the  virtues  which  we  are 
here  to  acquire  most  sedulously  are  those  of 
which  we  shall  have  the  greatest  need  in  the  life 
to  come.  Is  not  patience  an  exception  ?  We  can 
have  no  occasion  for  its  exercise  in  heaven ;  — 
why,  then,  assign  it  so  prominent  a  place  in  the 
Christian  character  ?  This  question  Avill  be  best 
answered  by  considering  the  uses  of  patience. 

Under  this  head  I  first  remark,  that  there  is 
one  work  which  we  must  all  accomplish,  would 


PATIENCE.  23 

we  enter  heaven, — namely,  the  formation  of  spir- 
itual characters,  the  establishment  of  tlic  suprem- 
acy of  the  inward  over  the  outward,  of  the  soul 
over  sense,  of  things  unseen  and  eternal  over 
things  seen  and  temporal.  The  world,  in  one 
way  or  another,  must  be  overcome,  —  the  prefer- 
ence for  external  and  perishing  goods  subdued, 
—  the  overmastering  love  of  what  is  inward  and 
spiritual  planted  firmly  in  the  soul.  It  is  to  ac- 
complisli  this  warfare  that  we  are  placed  here, 
that  by  means  of  it  the  soul  may  grow  and  get 
strength,  and  all  its  higher  powers  be  drawn  out 
in  hardy  and  self-sustaining  vigor.  This,  how- 
ever performed,  is  an  arduous  process ;  but  per- 
haps not  more  so  for  those  whose  discipline  is 
that  of  frequent  or  protracted  suffering,  than  for 
the  prosperous  and  happy.  Nay,  I  doubt  not  that 
in  the  sight  of  Heaven  seemingly  opposite  lots 
may  occupy  the  same  level  as  to  actual  enjoy- 
ment, if  connected  with  similar  moral  develop- 
ments ;  and,  for  one  who  would  win  heaven,  it 
may  be  that  the  trials  of  health,  prosperity,  or 
riches  are  no  less  severe  than  those  of  sickness, 
adversity,  or  penury.  They  are,  indeed,  of  a  dif- 
ferent class  ;  and  because  they  are  not  so  fre- 
quently regarded  as  occasions  of  moral  discipline, 
they  appear  less.  But  for  those  who  are  rich, 
and  full,  and  strong,  if  they  would  reach  favored 
places  in  the  heavenly  kingdom,  there  must  be  a 
course  of  self-restraint,  self-denial,  and  self-renun- 


24  PATIENCE. 

elation,  —  there  arc  mimberlcss  allurements  to  be 
resisted,  innocent  desires  to  be  kept  innocent  by 
their  moderate  indulgence,  an  engrossing  world, 
with  its  countless  attractions,  to  be  pushed  back, 
by  constant  effort,  from  the  imnost  citadel  of  the 
affections  to  that  second  place  which  it  rightfully 
occupies.  Most  of  this  work  Providence  performs 
for  the  suffering  disciple,  —  appointing  him,  in- 
deed, a  discipline  of  a  different  kind,  no  less  ar- 
duous, but  I  believe  not  more  so,  than  those  of 
us  who  are  prosperous  and  happy  would  no  doubt 
feel,  if  we  did  our  work  as  faithfully  as  we  love 
to  see  the  afflicted  do  theirs.  And  herein  lies 
one  essential  office  of  patience,  in  the  spiritualiz- 
ing of  the  character ;  and  how  beautifully  and 
effectually  it  does  this  many  of  us  can  testify, 
from  our  having  felt  nearer  heaven  in  the  abode 
of  penury,  or  by  the  bed  of  chronic  illness,  than 
in  the  gayest  and  brightest  scenes  that  have  fallen 
within  our  experience. 

Then,  again,  in  no  form  does  a  Christian  ex- 
ample seem  more  attractive,  and  win  more  honor 
to  the  Christian  name  and  character,  than  in  pa- 
tience under  severe  trial  and  suffering.  Piety, 
indeed,  is  in  the  sight  of  God  the  same,  under 
whatever  form ;  but  by  man  it  cannot  be  equal- 
ly appreciated  in  all  conditions  of  life.  In  pros- 
perity and  joy,  there  will  always  be  the  sneering 
and  sceptical,  who  will  repeat  Satan's  question, — 
"  Doth  Job  serv^e  God  for  naught  ?  "     But  touch 


PATIENCE.  25' 

the  disciple  in  his  dearest  earthly  interests,  bow 
liim  down  under  severe  alTliction,  and  if  he  then 
holds  fast  his  faith  and  trust,  if  he  is  serene  and 
happy,  if  he  talks  of  the  goodness  of  God,  and 
manifestly  dwells  in  inward  peace  and  quietness, 
there  is  no  room  left  for  cavilling.  We  can  see 
and  calculate  the  burden  under  which  the  spirit 
rests,  and  the  obstacles  against  which  it  struggles ; 
and  we  may  estimate  the  strength  of  its  faith  and 
principle  by  the  weight  which  it  can  lift  and  bear 
with  ease  and  joy.  No  examples  are  so  powerful 
as  these  in  commending  the  religion  of  the  cross. 
Multitudes  have  been  reclaimed  by  them  from  in- 
difference and  scepticism.  Multitudes  have  been 
led  by  them  to  meditate,  as  they  never  had  be- 
fore, on  the  sufficiency  of  the  Gospel,  and  to 
believe  and  confess  it  the  power  and  wisdom  of 
God  unto  salvation. 

God  means  that  we  should  all  be  examples  to 
one  another  ;  that,  while  we  save  our  own  souls, 
we  should  shine  for  the  salvation  of  others ;  and 
that  thus  the  world  should  from  generation  to 
generation  become  more  and  more  filled  with 
lights  on  the  heavenward  path.  We  read  in  the 
Bible  of  the  integrity  of  Joseph,  the  patience  of 
Job,  the  early  piety  of  Samuel,  the  firmness  of 
Daniel,  the  zeal  of  Peter,  and  the  love  of  John. 
God  means  that  the  life  of  each  one  of  us  should 
be,  for  those  around  us,  and  for  those  to  come 
after  us,  such  a  scripture  as  is  the  life  of  each  of 

3 


2G  PATIENCE. 

these  holy  men.  In  Jesus  his  whole  will  and  law- 
were  Avritton  out  in  living  characters.  AVhat  he 
was,  God  means  that  each  disciple  should  be  in 
his  own  Fphere  and  measure,  —  each  the  special 
emhodimcit  of  some  part  of  his  communicable 
attributes,  mingled,  as  they  must  appear,  in  dif- 
ferent proportions,  and  with  different  degrees  of 
lustre,  according  to  the  theatre  on  which  they 
are  to  be  displayed.  Each  living  gospel,  by  its 
own  peculiar  blending  of  divine  traits  and  mani- 
festations, may  have  a  peculiar  charm  and  power 
for  some  soul,  which  others  will  not  reach,  and 
may  thus  do  its  part  towards  leading  fellow-men 
to  righteousness  and  heaven.  This  office,  as  I 
have  said,  seems  to  be  performed  with  superior 
felicity  and  power  by  those  whose  mission  it  is 
to  suffer  rather  than  to  do.  In  their  humility 
and  self-distrust,  their  only  regret  often  is,  that 
they  can  do  nothing  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the 
honor  of  their  religion ;  while,  from  the  retired 
scene  of  their  calm  and  trustful  endurance,  as 
from  a  triljunal  of  world-resounding  eloquence, 
there  may  be  constantly  going  forth  the  most 
deep-reaching  and  effectual  lessons  of  truth,  duty, 
and  piety. 

I  remark,  in  closing,  that  patience  is  not  a  vir- 
tue to  which  even  death  sets  limits.  It  belongs 
to  heaven  and  to  eternity.  AVhat!  you  ask, — 
patience  in  heaven  ?  Will  there  be  suffering 
there  ?     By  no  means.     But  what  is  patience  ? 


rATIENCE.  27 

It  is  implicit  faith  and  trust,  exercised  in  tlio 
darker  scenes  and  vicissitudes  of  life.  These 
scenes  will  brighten  into  the  perfect  day,  —  these 
vicissitudes  will  be  merged  in  the  great  change, 
when  the  corruptible  puts  on  incorruption ;  but 
the  faith  and  trust  of  which  they  were  the  the- 
atre will  live  for  ever,  and  be  for  ever  needed. 
There  will  be  mysteries  in  heaven  as  well  as 
here,  things  to  be  taken  on  faith  before  they  can 
be  fully  known,  portions  of  the  vast  administra- 
tion of  God,  in  which,  in  our  ignorance,  we  must 
cast  ourselves  in  humble  reliance  on  his  wisdom 
and  goodness.  Our  faith,  our  trust,  must  go  be- 
fore us  on  our  career  of  growing  knowledge, 
power,  and  holiness,  always  hovenng  on  the 
limit  of  what  we  already  see  and  know,  and  har- 
monizing and  equalizing  to  our  apprehensions 
what  we  cannot  fathom  or  understand. 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  necessity,  the  aids, 
and  the  uses  of  patience.  It  makes  life  beautiful. 
It  sheds  a  calm  and  heavenly  glory  upon  the  bed 
of  death.  As  we  watch  the  passage  hence  of  one 
who  has  been  baptized  into  the  likeness  of  our 
Saviour's  sufferings,  in  the  hushed  stillness  of 
entire  submission,  in  the  peace  of  God  and  the 
atmosphere  of  prayer  and  praise,  we  seem  in  a 
heavenly  presence,  and  almost  listen  for  the  an- 
gel wings  that  bear  a  kindred  spirit  to  the  throne 
of  God  and  the  communion  of  the  unsuffering 
and  the  ransomed,  while  every  regretful  thought 


28  PATIENCE. 

is  checked  by  the  voice  that  bade  the  seer  of  Pat- 
mos  write,  —  "Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in 
the  Lord  ;  for  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and 
their  works  do  follow  them." 


SERMON    III 


OLD    AGE. 

*£nE  RIGHTEOUS  SHALL  FLOURISH  LIKE  THE  PALM-TREE  :  HE 
SHALL  GROW  LIKE  A  CEDAR  IN  LEBANON.  THOSE  THAT 
BE  PLANTED  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  LORD  SHALL  FLOUR- 
ISH IN  THE  COURTS  OF  OUR  GOD.  THEY  SHALL  STILL 
BRING   FORTH   FRUIT    IN   OLD   AGE.  —  Psalm  XCU.  12-14. 

Among  my  hearers  are  many  who  have  passed 
or  are  passuig  the  meridian  of  hfe,  and  of  those 
still  young  almost  all  look  forward  to  length  of 
days  upon  earth.  I  would  now  address  those 
who  feel  that  they  are  growing  old,  or  who  hope 
to  become  old,  and  would  offer  them  such  coun- 
sels as  may  save  them  from  the  misery  of  a  bar- 
ren and  hopeless  age,  and  make  them  like  those 
cedars  of  Lebanon,  around  which  generations, 
states,  empires,  have  been  born  and  have  passed 
away,  and  which  still  clothe  themselves  with  the 
verdure  and  the  fruit  of  their  youth. 

We  are  accustomed  to  think  of  the  prospect  of 
death  as  full  of  the  most  solemn  and  sad  interest. 

3* 


30  OLD    AGE. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  prospect  of  a  lengthened 
life  upon  earth  may  well  awaken  even  a  deeper 
seriousness  and  pensiveness  of  spirit.  And  in 
saying  this,  I  cast  no  reproach  on  the  Creator  or 
his  world.  I  regard  both  the  old  age  and  the 
death  which  God  means  for  us,  and  for  which  his 
spirit  ripens  us,  as  blessed  and  desirable.  But 
old  age,  where  the  youth  and  prime  have  been 
passed  in  frivolity  or  worldliness,  and  death, 
where  God  has  not  been  owned  in  the  life,  can- 
not be  regarded  with  excessive  dread,  or  warded 
off  with  a  diligence  too  early  or  too  constant. 
Let  us  now  look  at  some  of  these  inevitable  ex- 
periences of  advancing  years,  which  evince  the 
need  of  some  principle  of  greenness  and  vitality 
beyond  the  power  of  time  or  of  earthly  change. 

In  the  first  place,  if  we  live  long,  we  must  out- 
live the  keen  enjoyment  of  mere  pleasure,  —  of 
the  lighter  and  gayer  portions  of  life.  While  the 
elasticity  of  youth  lasts,  before  the  freshness  is 
worn  off  from  scenes  and  objects  that  early  grow 
familiar,  before  care  presses  heavily,  or  sorrow 
teaches  its  first  hard  lessons,  one  derives  con- 
scious gladness  from  the  round  of  amusement, 
from  whatever  wears  a  festive  aspect,  from  song, 
laughter,  and  merriment.  But  before  the  noon 
of  life,  most  persons  find  these  things  becoming 
burdensome.  They  cannot  raise  their  spirits  to 
so  high  a  level.  Growing  responsibilities  have 
subdued  their  former  buoyancy  of  soul.     Afflic- 


OLD    AGE.  31 

tion,  while,  so  far  from  deadening,  it  has  only 
rendered  the  more  intense  the  capacity  for  calm 
and  sober  enjoyment,  has  infused  a  lasting  pen- 
sivencss,  Avith  which  loud  and  gay  music  makes 
a  rc])ulsivc  discord.  The  feeling  rapidly  grows 
upon  one,  that  the  game  of  life  is  too  doubtful, 
and  its  stakes  too  desperate,  for  trifling ;  and 
many  of  the  voices,  much  of  the  laughter,  which 
used  to  make  him  glad,  and  on  which  in  early 
life  his  free  soul  could  float  forth  in  entire  sym- 
pathy, have  become  as  vapid  as  the  crackling  of 
thorns.  Those  who  still  retain  the  livery  of  youth 
for  the  most  part  find  it  irksome,  and  deem  it  a 
galling  necessity,  an  incessant  burden  and  weari- 
ness, to  continue  in  the  routine  in  which  they 
once  found  their  chief  pleasure. 

With  regard  to  the  more  serious  pursuits  of 
life,  a  man  very  early  ascertains  and  exhausts 
the  capacities  of  his  condition,  knows  all  that  he 
is  likely  to  be  and  do,  and  sees  but  little  unat- 
tained  for  which  he  can  reasonably  hope.  Before 
middle  life,  most  persons  have  found  their  own 
level  and  their  own  measure.  They  have  ex- 
hausted the  charm  of  novelty  in  their  profession 
or  avocation,  and  yet  feel  that  any  essential 
change  in  their  mode  of  life  is  growing  more  and 
more  improbable.  They  have  already  abandoned 
many  of  the  aims  and  hopes  with  which  they 
started  on  their  career,  —  expect  only  a  compe- 
tence instead  of  wealth,  or  mere  mediocrity  in- 


32  OLD    AGE. 

stead  of  eminence.  Golden  visions  have  groTvn 
dim,  wide  and  far-reaching  prospects  have  been 
narrowed,  and  the  horizon  is  fast  shutting  in  on 
every  side.  Then,  too,  whatever  rewards  of  en- 
terprise or  effort  have  been  won  appear,  when 
attained,  but  slight  and  small,  compared  Avitli 
what  they  were  in  expectation.  What  woidd 
once  have  been  deemed  an  ample  estate,  when 
possessed,  seems  paltry.  The  station  which  was 
once  a  goal  almost  too  distant  to  be  striven  for, 
when  reached,  dissatisfies ;  for  some  envied  ^lor- 
decai  holds  a  higher  seat.  Even  in  the  generous 
and  ennobling  walks  of  mental  culture,  a  con- 
viction of  our  own  ignorance  grows  upon  us  witli 
our  growth  in  Avisdom,  and  the  proportions  and 
dimensions  of  truth  enlarge  to  our  view  faster 
than  its  details  reveal  themselves  to  us.  In  point 
of  mental  acumen  and  vigor,  too,  there  must 
come  a  period  of  decline  and  stagnation  ;  at 
least,  there  have  been  no  exempts  from  this  law, 
except  where  a  devout  and  loving  heart  has  em- 
balmed the  intellect  in  its  freshness,  and  kept  tlic 
old  man  young.  Then  how  eagerly  do  younger 
men  remind  their  seniors  that  they  are  growing 
old !  Crowding  close  upon  one  another's  heels, 
the  generations  rush  on,  and  each  thrusts  itself, 
with  irreverent  liaste,  into  tlie  place  of  that  which 
preceded  it,  saying,  —  "  Stand  aside,  and  give  us 
room  ;  for  we  were  born  under  better  stars,  and 
are  more  abundantly  the  children  of  light  and 


OLD    AGE.  33 

wisdom  than  yc.''  The  foremost  places  in  soci- 
ety, the  commanding  posts  in  public  life,  are  con- 
stantly usurped  by  younger  and  still  younger 
claimants,  so  that  instead  of  the  fathers  are  the 
children  and  the  children's  children. 

Then,  again,  though  the  domestic  life  of  the 
aged  is  often  serene  and  happy,  it  is  made  so  only 
by  the  hallowing  power  of  a  higher  world ;  for, 
in  an  earthly  point  of  view,  it  is  but  little  that 
we  can  promise  ourselves  in  declining  years  as 
to  our  social  and  domestic  relations.  If  we  live 
long,  there  will  drop  away  from  our  circle  one  af- 
ter another  of  those  who  seemed  essential  to  our 
very  being ;  and  we  must  be  left  as  solitary  bar- 
ren trunks,  or  with  here  and  there  a  decaying 
branch,  in  place  of  the  green  and  verdant  boughs 
that  now  seem  so  full  of  promise.  If  we  live 
long,  it  will  be  to  survive  a  thousand  deaths,  — 
to  see  those  that  started  with  us  gradually  wast- 
ing away ;  nay,  more,  to  have  those  that  still  re- 
main, and  are  inexpressibly  dear,  far  or  often  di- 
vided from  us,  —  to  be  oppressed  with  numberless 
anxieties  on  their  account,  to  have  their  burdens 
and  sorrows  added  to  our  own,  and  perhaps  to 
incur  the  keenest  disappointment  in  the  moral 
delinquency,  the  blighting  and  spmtual  death,  of 
the  once  innocent  and  lovely. 

In  fine,  waning  life  must  continually  part  with 
outward  advantages  which  early  years  had  given. 
Decrease  as  to  all  things  earthly  is  the  inevitable 


34  OLD    AGE. 

law  of  man's  latter  days.  We  must  liave  less  and 
less  ill  prospect,  must  have  our  strongest  holds 
upon  life  one  by  one  broken  off,  and,  beyond 
a  certain  point,  can  hope  only  for  days  whose 
strength  is  labor  and  sorrow.  And  now  take  the 
only  view  which  can  present  itself  to  the  old  man 
wlio  lias  no  interest  in  things  above,  no  hope  be- 
yond tlie  grave,  and  who  already  feels  in  his  own 
frame  that  the  evil  days  are  drawing  nigh  and 
the  pleasureless  years  are  at  hand.  What  lies 
before  him  ?  A  prospect,  every  feature  of  which 
is  worn  and  faded,  and  beyond  which  rises  a  black, 
impenetrable  wall,  —  a  heritage  almost  squan- 
dered, and  with  no  reversion  for  his  benefit,  —  a 
future,  an  eternity  blank  and  void.  And  are 
you  willing  to  see  life  thus  slipping  away  from 
you,  and  to  know  that  what  is  gone  is  irretriev- 
ably gone,  and  yet  to  have  no  hold  on  a  higher 
and  better  life  ?  But  there  is  only  one  Master 
who  remains  faithful  to  the  hoary  head,  and  "  for- 
sakes not  his  servant  when  his  strength  faileth 
him."  Let  us  look,  then,  at  some  of  those  tilings 
which  we  shall  need  for  our  happiness,  under  the 
full  consciousness  of  declining  years. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  feel  that  we  liave 
lived  for  some  worthy  purpose,  accomplished  some 
satisfying  and  permanent  results,  laid  up  some 
treasure  that  cannot  be  taken  from  us.  The 
work  of  life  must  have  been  such,  that  we  can 
regard  it  with  pleasure  in  our  lonely  and  our  sol- 


OLD    AGE.  35 

emn  liours.  It  must  bo  such  as  will  abide,  and 
go  with  us  from  the  busy  scene,  and  go  with  us, 
too,  from  the  life  that  now  is.  We  must  see  the 
work  within  in  chastened  affections,  pure  tastes, 
a  heavenly  temper,  a  heart  familiar  in  its  converse 
Avith  God  and  at  peace  with  man.  Our  choicest 
possessions  must  be  those  which  retreating  health 
and  strength  cannot  bear  with  them,  or  the  fail- 
ure of  our  active  intellectual  powers  destroy,  or 
treacherous  memory  hide  from  vis.  And  here  we 
may  trace  a  beautiful  arrangement  of  divine  mer- 
cy, and  a  pledge,  too,  that  the  moral  nature  shall 
survive  the  grave,  in  the  fact,  that,  when  the 
sight  grows  dim  through  age,  and  energy  is  pal- 
sied, and  recollection  fails,  the  moral  traits  gen- 
erally remain  unobscured,  nay,  grow  in  mellow- 
ness and  beauty  even  to  the  confines  of  eternity. 
A  friend  once  gave  me  an  account  of  his  father, 
since  deceased,  who  had  then  added  seven  to  a 
full  century  of  years.  His  communion  with  the 
outward  world  had  at  that  time  entirely  ceased, 
except  when  objects  were  for  a  moment,  and  with 
the  utmost  effort,  forced  upon  his  attention.  But 
having  been  from  his  youth  up  gentle,  contented, 
happy,  and  devout,  he  still  manifested  the  ut- 
most cheerfulness,  patience,  and  gratitude ;  his 
lips  were  moving,  the  greater  part  of  his  waking 
liours,  in  the  language  of  half-iittered  prayer ;  and 
the  only  form  of  conversation  that  he  had  retained 
was  that  of  a  fervent  benediction,  whenever  the 


db  OLD    AGE. 

Yoices  of  his  children  or  friends  could  pierce  the 
thick  walls  of  sense  that  shut  in  the  soul  of  the 
blind  and  deaf  old  man.  Who  can  doubt  that 
such  a  soul  has  that  witliin  it  which  keeps  it  in 
perfect  peace  and  gladness,  —  that  it  is  cheered 
in  its  solitude  by  celestial  visitors,  by  the  com- 
munings of  God,  and  Jesus,  and  justified  spirits, 
even  as  the  lone  mountain,  inaccessible  to  the 
steps  of  mortals,  has  the  nearest  view  of  heaven  ? 
Let  us  walk  with  God  now, — and  then,  should 
the  days  come  when  we  can  no  longer  walk  witli 
men,  we  shall  still  retain  our  hidden  life  with 
him ;  and  in  hoary  winter,  when  the  harvest  of 
our  earthly  life  has  passed,  and  its  sheaves  are 
all  gathered  in,  the  fruits  of  piety  shall  still  be 
ripening  for  a  better  harvest  in  heaven. 

Again,  would  we  enjoy  a  happy  old  age,  let  us 
make  kindness  and  love  the  law  of  our  lips  and 
our  lives.  Let  us  bind  ourselves  by  ties  of  mu- 
tual benefit  with  as  many  of  our  fellow-beings  as 
we  may.  Let  us  not  have  lived  in  vain  for  those 
among  whom  we  dwell ;  but  let  us  so  order  our 
1  ves,  that  the  eye  that  sees  us  shall  bless  us,  and 
the  ear  that  hears  us  shall  bear  witness  for  us. 
Selfishness  withers  the  heart  prematurely,  and 
makes  a  young  man  old,  while  a  kind  and  benefi- 
cent life  keeps  the  heart  young,  and  makes  old 
age  flourish  like  a  palm-tree.  Generous  age  is 
deserted  neither  by  God  nor  by  man.  Its  own 
kindred  and  coevals  may  groAV  few ;  but  stran- 


OLD    AGE.  37 

gcrs  perform  the  part  of  kindred,  and  youth  de- 
lights to  blend  its  morning  beams  with  the  rich 
sunset  of  a  benevolent  life.  Gratitude  and  affec- 
tion smooth  the  tottering  steps,  and  lighten  the 
infirmities,  of  the  merciful  man.  God  and  all 
good  angels  are  with  him.  The  fruits  of  his  char- 
ity in  part  remain  to  refresh  and  nourish  him  till 
his  change  comes,  while  those  not  to  be  found  on 
earth  are  garnered  for  him  in  heaven. 

Again,  would  we  pass  a  happy  old  age,  let 
us  not  forsake  the  communion  of  our  departed 
friends.  If  we  live  on,  their  number  must  soon 
equal,  and  then  exceed,  that  of  the  surviving. 
However  assiduous  and  tender  may  be  the  minis- 
try of  newer  and  younger  friends,  there  will  still 
be  vacant  places  near  and  about  us,  which  they 
can  never  fill.  The  nearest  places  may  be  made 
void,  and  others  can  then  move  around  us  only 
in  an  outer  circle.  Let  us  learn,  therefore,  of 
the  spirit  of  Jesus  to  regard  those  who  have  gone 
as  still  near  and  with  us,  as  separated  from  us 
but  by  a  thin  veil,  which  faith  may  make  transpar- 
ent, and  as  forming  a  goodly  company  to  welcome 
us  to  our  final  rest,  and  to  shed  over  the  majestic 
courts  of  heaven  a  familiar,  homelike  aspect. 

Let  us,  my  friends,  by  these  Christian  means 
of  preparation,  fortify  ourselves  against  tlie  years 
of  decline  and  infirmity.  Let  us  not  hope  for 
length  of  days,  without  making  the  gift  worth 
praying  for  and  worth  having. 

4 


38  OLD    AGE. 

Let  me,  in  conclusion,  commend  the  train  of 
thought  in  the  preceding  discourse  to  the  dihgent 
heed  of  the  young  who  may  have  listened  to  me. 
You  will  all  think  early  of  some  provision  for  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  old  age.  The  best  pro- 
vision for  your  latter  days,  —  that  without  which 
hoarded  wealth  will  be  a  weary  burden,  —  that 
with  which  poverty  will  be  no  curse,  —  is  the 
provision  which  memory  may  furnish,  —  the  ret- 
rospect of  a  life  of  piety,  integrity,  and  kindness. 
You  see  those  whose  early  lives  were  given  to 
worldliness  or  profligacy ;  and  there  surely  is  not 
in  their  ranks  an  advanced  post  which  you  could 
think  of  occupying  without  a  shudder.  But  how 
beautiful,  how  reverend,  the  hoary  head  which 
crowns  a  pure  and  virtuous  youth  and  prime ! 
This  world  presents  no  sight  so  heavenly  as  the 
serene  sunset  of  a  well-spent  life,  when  the  testi- 
mony of  a  good  conscience  is  loud  and  clear,  — 
when  the  eye  can  glance  back  on  duties  faithful- 
ly performed  and  conflicts  well  sustained,  —  when 
the  veteran  soldier  of  the  cross  can  say,  in  godly 
sincerity,  —  ^'  I  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have 
finished  my  course,  I  have  kept  the  faith."  He 
may  have  borne  severe  trial  and  desolating  sor- 
row. He  may  be  left  alone  by  those  once  his 
best  beloved.  He  may  seem  to  have  been  a  mark 
for  the  keenest  sliafts  of  adversity.  But  he  is. 
still  calm  and  happy.  His  repose  is  on  the  bosom 
of  eternal  Love.     His  peace  is  that  which  Jesus 


OLD    AGE.  39 

gives,  and  wliicli  the  world  cannot  take  away. 
How  gently  blend  for  him  the  visions  of  memory 
and  hope !  How  tranquil  and  kind  is  nature's 
decay !  For  him  the  evening  shadows  fall  gen- 
tly, and  they  all  ''  point  to  the  dawn."  For  him 
the  silver  cord  is  softly  loosed,  not  cut ;  the  gold- 
en bowl  crumbled,  not  rudely  broken  at  the  foun- 
tain ;  and  death  at  length  is  greeted  with  a  sol- 
emn welcome,  as  bearing  the  faithful  servant  to 
that  better  home,  where,  in  the  beautiful  lan- 
guage of  the  prophet,  "  they  that  wait  upon  the 
Lord  shall  renew  their  strength  ;  they  shall 
mount  up  on  wings  as  eagles  ;  they  shall  run  and 
not  be  weary,  they  shall  walk  and  not  faint." 


SERMON    lY. 


A  PROTECTING  PROVIDENCE. 

{Preached  on  the  day  of  Public  Thanksgiving,  1843.) 

«HOU    SHALT    REMEMBER    ALL    THE    VTXY    WHICH    THE    LORD 
THY    GOD    LED    THEE. — Dcut.  viiL  2. 

This  is  emphatically  a  day  of  remembrance. 
Parted  families  meet,  and  recount  the  course  of 
Providence  since  they  were  last  together.  The 
long  absent  return,  each  to  bear  testimony  to 
heavenly  guidance  and  protection.  Griefs,  too, 
come  up  with  vividness,  and  wounds  are  reopened. 
Yacant  places  at  the  festival  dim  the  eye  of  the 
bereaved,  and  thoughts  of  those  no  longer  with 
us  mingle  deep  hues  of  pensiveness  with  the 
gayety  and  gladness  of  tlie  season.  What  can  bo 
more  appropriate,  at  once  to  hallow  the  joy  and 
to  soothe  the  sad  remembrances  of  our  festival, 
than  for  us  to  do  together  what  will  be  done  sep- 
arately in  every  house,  (Heaven  grant  that  it  be 
religiously  done  !)  —  namely,  to  look  back  upon 


A    rilOTECTING    TROVIDENCE.  41 

the  way  in  which  the  Lord  our  God  has  led  us, 
and  to  recall  some  of  the  grateful  views  of  a  kind 
Providence  which  are  or  ought  to  be  common  to 
us  all  ? 

Tlie  monuments  of  divine  love  are  crowded  so 
closely  together,  that  we  are  prone  to  pass  them 
by  unnoticed.  The  experience  of  all  of  us  is  so 
much  alike,  that  we  cease  to  marvel  at  it.  The 
Lord  our  God  leads  us  all  in  a  way  so  wonderful 
and  so  merciful,  that  it  seems  a  worn  and  com- 
mon path,  with  nothing  upon  it  to  excite  our 
special  interest.  Were  any  one  of  us  the  sole  re- 
cipient of  favors  of  which  we  all  partake,  that  in- 
dividual would  stand  forth  as  a  miracle  of  mercy 
to  himself  and  to  every  one  else,  and  would  be 
regarded,  day  by  day,  with  the  same  amazement 
with  which  the  sisters  of  Bethany  saw  Lazarus 
stepping  forth  from  the  tomb.  But  because  the 
Father  of  all  leaves  none  unblessed,  we  often 
neglect  the  religious  review  of  his  Providence,  so 
that  this  duty,  than  which  there  is  none  more 
imperative  or  more  sanctifying,  is,  perhaps,  one 
of  the  rarest  to  be  faithfully  discharged. 

In  liolping  you  in  the  performance  of  this  duty, 
I  would  first  ask  you  to  reflect  on  the  amount  of 
happiness  which  you  as  an  assembly  represent. 
You  have  come  hither  from  more  than  a  hundred 
different  dwellings  ;  and  in  those  dwellings  a  very 
few  are  left  at  home  on  account  of  the  chronic 
infirmities  and  gentle  decline  of  age,  and  one  or 

4* 


42  A  PROTECTING  TROVIDENCE. 

two  laboring  under  more  acute  disease,  but  not 
one  so  ill  as  to  be  incapable  of  enjoying  many  of 
the  common  bounties  of  Providence,  —  not  one 
to  whom  this  day  will  not  have  given  a  very  con- 
siderable preponderance  of  enjoyment  over  suf- 
fering. Of  those  here,  how  few  have  come  with 
anxious  or  grief-worn  countenances,  or  with  sad 
hearts !  The  hue  of  health,  the  glow  of  cheerful- 
ness, is  on  almost  every  face.  True,  there  are 
many  of  you  who  have  chronic  troubles,  —  dis- 
appointments and  sorrows,  which  you  do  not  re- 
gard, and  probably  never  ^ill  regard,  as  healed. 
But  these  take  much  less  than  at  first  thought 
might  seem  from  the  enjoyment  of  life.  Proba- 
bly those  who  feel  the  poorest  are  those  of  you 
who  are  only  less  rich  than  you  once  were, 
who  have  met  with  great  losses,  yet  have  never 
lacked  fitting  food,  raiment,  and  shelter,  or  even 
the  comforts  and  luxuries  which  you  enjoyed 
when  you  called  yourselves  richer.  Your  con- 
sciousness of  poverty,  therefore,  is  by  no  means 
constant,  but  comes  to  you  only  at  moments  wlien 
you  are  forced  to  compare  yourselves  with  oth- 
ers, and  casts  no  cloud  over  the  better  portion 
of  your  lives.  Those  of  you  who  have  been  be- 
reaved of  kindred  nearest  to  your  hearts  are,  in- 
deed, mourners  every  day.  But  still  there  are 
so  many  of  the  beloved  left,  and  so  many  sources 
of  joy  still  open,  that  your  moments  of  poig- 
nant grief  bear  a  small  proportion  to  the  gladness 


A    PROTECTING    PROVIDENCE.  43 

wliicli  a  kind  Providence  forces  upon  you  in  spite 
of  the  sorrow  that  you  so  carefully  nourish.  It 
is  not  that  your  hearts  are  ever  unfaithful  to  the 
memory  of  those  that  are  gone ;  but  your  joy- 
giving  Father  will  not  leave  his  children  a  prey 
to  enduring  grief.  There  is  probably  not  one  of 
you  to  whom,  in  the  sight  of  God,  this  is  not  a 
happy  day  ;  not  one,  whose  glad  do  not  outnum- 
ber his  regretful  thoughts ;  whose  mercies  spared 
do  not  exceed  those  withdrawn,  by  a  proportion 
beyond  our  power  to  calculate ;  —  for  our  sor- 
rows we  can  count,  and  tell  our  wounds,  but  thy 
thoughts  of  love,  0  God,  how  great  is  the  sum  of 
them !  —  should  we  count  them,  they  are  more 
in  number  than  the  sands  of  the  sea. 

How  many  sources  of  happiness  flow  for  us 
this  morning!  While  we  slept,  the  stars  faded 
from  their  night-watches,  and  the  misty  dawn 
prepared  a  softened,  mellow  light  for  our  waking 
eyes.  The  sun  rose  in  beauty  on  our  day  of  glad 
festivity.  The  autumn  air  has  breathed  health 
and  vigor  into  our  frames.  The  rich,  yet  chas- 
tened, hues  of  the  autumn  sky  have  sent  their 
spirit  of  repose  into  our  hearts.  The  notes  of  the 
dying  year  reach  us,  not  as  those  of  a  dirge,  but 
as  an  anthem  of  praise  and  hope.  When  the 
night-curtain  was  uplifted,  we  came  fortli  from 
our  rest  to  the  tables  which  our  Father  had 
spread  for  us  ;  and  the  table  of  the  poorest  of  us 
bore  testimony  to  his  blessing  on  commerce  and 


44  A  PROTECTING   PROVIDENCE. 

on  harvest  toil,  on  skill  and  handicraft.  We  met 
in  our  respective  families.  No  watch  had  we 
kept  by  night,  but  we  feared  no  evil ;  we  aban- 
doned ourselves  and  one  another  to  the  unslum- 
bering  Shepherd  of  Israel.  Yet  danger  may  have 
been  near.  The  shadow  of  death  may  have  passed 
over  our  dwellings ;  but  God  averted  it  before 
we  waked  to  fear  it.  There  were  in  our  houses 
numerous  frail  infant  lives,  which  might  be 
crushed  before  the  moth,  and  the  sparing  of  which 
through  so  many  gates  of  death  seems  an  un- 
ceasing miracle ;  yet  they  slept  unharmed,  and 
awoke  full  of  health  and  gladness,  for  they  rested 
under  the  good  Shepherd's  eye,  and  beneath  his 
arm. 

Home,  —  how  many  springs  of  joy  does  that  one 
word  comprise !  It  is  created  by  the  very  events 
which  we  most  dread  within  its  enclosure.  It  is 
the  offspring  of  sickness,  suffering,  and  death. 
It  is  our  exposure  to  these  (so  called)  calamities, 
which  makes  it  necessary  for  each  to  have  that 
retreat,  that  ark  of  protection,  where  others  shall 
help  him  ward  off  tlie  evil  day,  or  bear  and  sur- 
vive it  when  it  comes.  It  is  death  that  calls  for 
successive  generations  of  men,  and  creates  fami- 
lies for  the  nourishment  and  defence  of  each  new 
race.  Take  suffering  and  death  away,  and  man- 
kind would  be  at  once  resolved  into  isolated 
units,  and  the  shrine  of  the  purest  joy  would  be 
laid  waste  and  desolate  for  ever.    Yet  how  khidly 


A    PROTECTING    PROVIDENCE.  45 

arc  these  essential  portions  of  the  beneficent  sys- 
tem arranged,  so  that  they  often  darken  not  for 
years  the  home  that  they  make  glad,  and,  when 
they  come,  come  almost  always  with  gentle  prep- 
aration, and  with  unexpected  sources  of  relief 
and  comfort !  How  much  is  implied  in  the  tran- 
quil and  healthful  condition  in  which  most  of  our 
families  have  found  themselves  to-day  !  So  many 
living  lyres  in  time  and  tune,  so  many  marvellous 
tides  of  life  kept  flowing,  —  and  yet  these  lyres 
strung  as  with  threads  of  gossamer,  these  tides 
flowing  in  the  frailest  vessels,  and  liable  to  be 
shed  by  the  slightest  accident.  In  a  tliousand 
forms  and  ways  must  an  incessant  Providence 
watch,  guard,  and  guide,  avert  peril  and  bestow 
aid,  in  each  of  our  households,  with  every  new 
day,  to  make  health  tlie  rule,  disease  and  death 
the  rare  exception, — joy  the  current,  grief  the 
transient  ripple  on  its  surface. 

I  have  spoken  of  common  blessings.  Have  we 
not  each  special  mercies  which  we  would  own 
with  devout  gratitude,  —  mercies  adapted  to  our 
peculiar  wants,  stamped  and  sealed  as  for  us  indi- 
vidually, as  distinctly  marked,  so  to  speak,  with 
our  names,  as  keepsakes  from  a  friend  might  be  ? 
How  often  have  we  received  the  very  favors  which 
we  most  needed,  yet  foresaw  not,  and  dared  not 
anticipate,  sent  at  the  only  moment  and  in  the 
only  mode  in  which  they  could  have  been  avail- 
ing !     How  many  way-marks  have  we  had  reason 


46  A    PROTECTING    PROVIDENCE. 

to  set  up  all  along  the  path  of  life  for  peculiar 
interpositions  and  deliverances,  for  the  hand  of 
love  outstretched  at  our  seasons  of  greatest  need, 
for  those  blessings  so  exactly  timed,  that,  sent 
sooner,  they  would  have  been  useless,  or,  given 
later,  they  would  have  come  too  late !  Often,  too, 
have  slight  events  become  the  parents  of  great ; 
and  conjunctures  of  trivial  circumstances  have 
seemed  to  sway  the  whole  course  of  our  destinies. 
Often  has  our  entire  future  appeared  to  hang  as 
on  a  single  thread,  and  to  be  modified  as  by  the 
turning  of  a  straw.  Thus  has  God,  by  the  feeble- 
ness of  second  causes,  laid  bare  his  own  guiding 
arm,  and  shown  himself  the  gracious  arbiter  of 
our  fortunes.  At  times,  too,  the  path  has  seemed 
shut  up  against  us,  mountains  of  difficulty  have 
obstructed  our  way,  or  we  have  been,  as  were  the 
Israelites  of  old,  with  foes  behind  and  the  deep 
sea  before  them.  But  just  as  we  have  halted  in 
despair,  not  knowing  where  to  plant  our  next 
footstej),  God  has  cleft  the  mountain,  or  made 
the  sea  to  stand  in  heaps  on  either  hand,  thus 
opening  a  straight  path  before  us,  and  giving  us 
the  garment  of  praise  for  the  spirit  of  heaviness. 

In  the  way  in  wliich  the  Lord  our  God  has  led 
us,  we  may  also  cherish  our  gratitude  by  mark- 
ing the  footsteps  of  things  that  have  almost  hap- 
pened. How  close  have  we  all  often  come  to 
trial,  suffering,  or  death,  which  Providence  has 
averted  when  just  hanging  over  our  heads !     The 


A   PROTECTING    TROVIDENCE.  47 

shadow  darkens  on  our  path ;  but  the  hand  of 
love  rolls  it  back  before  we  feel  its  gloom.  The 
safe  way,  by  which  we  have  been  led,  is  a  narrow 
road,  often  on  the  brink  of  fearful  precipices,  and 
crossing  chasms  and  abysses  as  by  a  single  plank. 
The  slightest  misstep  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the 
left,  and  we  are  lost.  Yet,  amid  hidden  pitfalls 
and  lurking  graves,  God  has  kept  our  feet  from 
falling,  and  our  souls  from  death. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  well  for  us  to  consider 
how  little  we  can  do  for  ourselves.  We  are  too 
prone  to  feel  as  if  our  own  industry,  energy,  and 
forethought  could  accomplish  mucli.  We  are 
apt  to  take  credit  to  ourselves  for  the  security  in 
which  we  dwell,  and  for  the  comforts  which  we 
multiply  around  us.  But  think  how  many  sources 
of  joy  must  all  flow  together,  how  many  depart- 
ments of  nature  and  of  being  must  all  be  brought 
into  harmony,  in  order  for  us  to  pass  a  single 
hour  in  comfort.  Is  this,  my  hearer,  an  hour  of 
peace  and  happiness  ?  Are  you  sound  in  body, 
free  from  pain  and  infirmity,  without  any  heavy 
burden  on  your  mind,  any  outward  source  of 
grief,  or  any  secret  sorrow  preying  on  your  heart  ? 
If  so,  you  may  count  the  stars  in  the  sky  more 
easily  than  you  can  number  the  blessings  of  this 
moment.  Your  complex  frame,  consisting  of  myr- 
iads of  parts,  demands  nutriment  from  every  ele- 
ment, levies  contributions  on  all  surrounding  na- 
ture, and  pines  and  suffers  the  instant  its  claims 


48  A  PROTECTING  PROVIDENCE. 

are  denied.  Your  mind  takes  simultaneous  cog- 
nizance of  a  vast  variety  of  objects  and  topics, 
and  is  thus  constantly  open  at  all  points  to  anxi- 
ety and  corroding  care.  Your  heart  interweaves 
its  fibres,  not  only  with  a  cherished  few,  but, 
more  or  less  closely,  with  a  great  number  of  rel- 
atives, intimates,  or  dependents,  whose  lives  are 
bound  up  in  the  same  bundle  with  your  own, 
whose  griefs  you  bear,  whose  sorrows  you  carry, 
who  can  none  of  them  be  in  immediate  and  deep 
distress,  and  leave  you  at  your  ease.  But  though 
you  depend  on  all  these  things,  you  can  yourself 
do  but  one  thing  at  a  time ;  and,  while  seeking 
your  own  good  in  one  direction,  you  are  obliged 
to  leave  all  your  other  interests  uncared  for,  all 
the  other  avenues  to  your  peace  unguarded. 
Your  own  counsel  and  might  cannot  be  instru- 
mental in  doing  for  you  a  millionth  part  of  what 
is  every  moment  done  for  you.  How  deep,  then, 
should  be  the  gratitude  with  which  you  now  set 
up  a  new  pillar  of  thanksgiving,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion,—  "  Hitherto  hath  the  Lord  helped  me  !  '* 

We  have  thus  taken,  under  a  few  obvious,  yet 
too  much  forgotten  heads,  a  cursory  view  of  the 
way  in  which  the  Lord  our  God  has  led  us. 
"What  are  the  duties  to  w^hich  this  review  calls 
us  ? 

Does  it  not  make  the  gratitude  of  the  most 
thankful  seem  cold  ?  What  but  unceasing  praise 
can   worthily   respond  to  this  incessant  flow  of 


A    PROTECTING    FROVIDENCE.  49 

mercy  ?  And  yet,  my  friends,  do  not  some  of  us 
live  without  thanksgiving,  —  receiving  unnum- 
bered benefits,  and  yet  never  rendering  the  sacri- 
fice of  praise,  —  with  mercies  ever  new  compass- 
ing their  path  and  their  lying  down,  and  yet  their 
way  unblessed,  their  rest  unsanctified,  by  the  in- 
cense of  a  grateful  heart  ?  0  that  every  soul 
might  feel  the  love  in  which  it  is  embosomed, 
and  might  send  heavenward  the  blended  anthem 
of  all  its  powers  and  affections,  — "  Bless  the 
Lord,  and  forget  not  all  his  benefits!"  May 
the  smile  of  our  Father  rest  upon  us,  and  sink 
deep  into  our  hearts,  as  we  enjoy  the  festivities  of 
tliis  day.  With  those  that  we  love  best  at  our 
sides,  in  homes  made  happy,  at  tables  spread  by 
04.ir  Father's  bounty,  may  the  rich  gifts  lead  us  to 
the  Giver,  and  may  every  fireside  and  every  heart 
be  an  altar  of  praise. 

In  these  mercies,  hear  we  not  also  the  voice  of 
religious  exhortation,  —  "  My  son,  give  me  thy 
heart "  ?  Why  is  it  that  our  outward  life  is  thus 
passed  as  in  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite  Father,  if 
it  be  not  that  our  souls  may  also  live  in  him  ? 
From  our  happy  homes  and  our  bountiful  boards, 
from  the  children,  like  olive-plants,  around  our 
tables,  from  the  uncounted  blessings  that  encom- 
pass our  daily  path,  from  the  watchful  love  that 
guards  our  nightly  rest,  come  there  not  invita- 
tions, loud  and  many-voiced,  to  consecrate  our 
lives  to  Him  who  loves  us  all,  and  whose  tender 

5 


50  A    PROTECTING    PROVIDENCE. 

mercies  are  over  all  his  works  ?  And  shall  not 
these  voic  :s  of  Providence  blend  in  beautiful  har- 
mony with  that  of  Him  who  bore  upon  earth, 
and  displayed  among  the  dwellings  of  men,  the 
image  of  the  Father's  love  ? 

God's  providence  in  all  the  past  invites  and 
exhorts  us  to  implicit  trust  in  him  for  all  time  to 
come.  In  our  littleness  and  lowliness,  we  may 
feel  that  we  are  individually  the  objects  of  the 
Divine  interest,  care,  and  love ;  that  "he  knoweth 
our  path  and  our  lying  down,  and  is  acquainted 
with  all  our  ways."  We  may  dismiss  care ;  for 
he  careth  for  us.  We  may  repose  even  on  the 
mountain  billows ;  for  "  the  Lord  on  high  is 
mightier  than  the  noise  of  many  waters,  yea, 
than  the  mighty  waves  of  the  sea."  We  need 
never  apprehend  for  the  morrow,  or  cast  looks  of 
doubt  or  fear  along  the  path  of  life ;  for  we  are 
assured  that  the  pillar  of  cloud  will  shield  us  by 
day,  and  the  fire-signal  guide  us  by  night. 


SERMON    y. 


DESPONDENCY. 

WHY  ART  THOU  CAST  DOWN,  O  MY  SOUL  ?  AND  WHY  ART  THOU 
DISQUIETED   IN  ME  1    HOPE   THOU  IN  GOD.  —  Psalm  xlii.  5. 

The  lesson  of  implicit  trust  in  Providence  is, 
even  to  many  who  call  themselves  Christians, 
hard  to  learn,  and  easy  to  forget.  Some  of  us 
habitually,  and  most  of  us  at  times,  cherish  a 
foreboding  spirit  with  reference  to  the  future, 
and  afflict  ourselves  with  the  evils  and  calamities 
that  may  come.  In  our  text  the  Psalmist  rebukes 
himself  for  this  anxious,  distrustful  spirit,  and, 
in  a  season  of  doubt  and  disquietude,  urges  upon 
his  own  soul  the  exhortation,  —  "Hope  thou  in 
God."  The  text  will  suggest  the  division  of  my 
•sermon.  I  would  first  illustrate  the  unreason- 
ableness and  \drtual  impiety  of  the  over-anxious, 
foreboding  spirit  manifested  by  so  many,  and 
would  then  inculcate  the  lesson  of  implicit  trust 
in  a  wise  and  paternal  Providence. 

Do  I  address  any  of  the  foreboding  and  dis- 


62  DESPONDENCY. 

trustful  ?  I  would  first  remind  you  that  this  spir- 
it is  rebuked  by  your  Avliole  experience.  The  vast 
preponderance  with  you  has  always  been  on  the 
side  of  liapi)iness.  You  have  probably  never 
passed  an  utterly  wretched  day,  —  a  day  which 
did  not  give  you  more  enjoyment  than  suffering. 
If  you  have  been  long  of  this  foreboding  habit, 
not  one  in  a  hundred  of  the  sorrows  that  you 
have  apprehended  has  reached  you.  Those,  also, 
that  have  overtaken  you  have  been  lighter  than 
you  would  have  feared.  The  stone  may  haA^e 
been  great,  and  as  you  drew  near,  you  said, — 
"  "Wlio  will  roll  it  away  ?  "  But  an  angel's  hand 
lias  helped  jou.  lift  it.  Why  should  you  look  for 
dai^ker  days  than  you  have  passed  tlirough  ?  Why 
should  you  expect  a  more  afflictive  experience 
tlian  you  have  had  ?  Why  do  you  fear  that  the 
goodness  and  mercy  which  have  followed  you  all 
your  days  will  forsake  you  now?  Do  troubles 
seem  close  at  hand  and  inevitable  ?  So  have 
they  seemed  before,  and  yet  a  way  of  escape  has 
been  opened.  We  have  all  of  us  been  as  was 
Isaac  on  Mount  Moriah.  The  sacrifice  has  been 
ready,  the  knife  lifted,  and  ourselves  the  victims ; 
but,  as  the  strolvc  descended,  an  unseen  hand 
turned  it  from  us.  "  The  thing  that  hath  been 
shall  be."  The  Divine  presence,  which  in  cloud 
and  fire  has  guided  your  path  thus  far,  shall  be 
your  guide  even  unto  death. 

Again,   what  can   your  anxiety  do  for  you  ? 


DESPONDENCY.  53 

Can  it  avert  what  you  dread  ?  No.  But  it  may 
hasten  it.  Under  Providence,  there  are  many 
evils  which  it  is  within  our  own  power  to  ward  off. 
In  many  respects,  our  health,  our  outward  well- 
being,  and  that  of  our  households,  are  committed 
to  our  own  keeping,  and  can  be  safely  kept  only 
by  a  self-collected  mind  and  a  quiet  heart.  But 
the  foreboding,  desponding  spirit  is  apt  to  be 
thrown  off  its  guard  ;  it  loses  the  just  balance  and 
healthy  tone  of  its  mental  powers  ;  it  becomes  in- 
capable of  forethought,  and  rushes  headlong  into 
the  evil  which  it  fears,  or  remains  in  tlie  track  of 
calamities  which,  if  in  a  more  tranquil  state,  it 
would  foresee  and  escape.  Then,  too,  your  solici- 
tude, even  where  it  cannot  hasten,  cannot  prevent 
trial ;  and  if  the  dreaded  evil  comes,  your  pre- 
vious anxiety  will  have  weakened  the  fortitude 
with  which  you  might  otherwise  have  borne  it 
and  triumphed  over  it,  and  will  give  it  the  vic- 
tory over  you  in  a  conflict,  in  which  it  is  your 
Father's  will  that  you  should  come  off  more  than 
conqueror. 

I  Avould  also  remind  you  that  sorrow  in  pros- 
pect is  much  more  bitter  and  grievous  than  it  is 
in  actual  experience.  When  it  comes  to  us  as 
the  cup  which  our  Father  gives  us,  it  comes  ready 
mingled,  and  mingled  with  elements  of  relief 
and  comfort.  God  sends  no  unmitigated  sorrow ; 
but  always  enables  us  to  sing  of  mercy  in  the 
midst   of  judgment,  —  never   suffers   us   in   the 

5* 


54  DESPONDENCY. 

spirit  of  heaviness  utterly  to  cast  off  the  garment 
of  praise.  He  smooths  for  us  the  descent  into  the 
vale  of  tribulation  ;  and  we  go  down  into  it  laden 
with  covenant  mercies,  and  with  the  assurance, 
—  "I  will  never  leave  nor  forsake  thee."  Every 
trial  comes  with  its  alleviating  circumstances,  its 
mild  preparatives,  and  abounding  consolations. 
Sickness  summons  sympathy  and  patience  for  its 
ministers.  Unmerited  disesteem  fortifies  itself 
by  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience.  Poverty 
moves  on  under  the  guidance  of  health  and  hope. 
Bereaved  affection  meets  the  risen  Saviour  at  the 
grave-side.  In  every  form  of  sorrow,  God  draws 
near  to  the  stricken  spirit,  and  offers  his  own  joy- 
giving  presence  in  the  place  of  the  blessings  taken; 
and  many  of  the  afflicted  have  had  in  their  sever- 
est trials  far  deeper,  more  heart-swelling  views  of 
the  Divine  love  than  they  ever  had  in  their  sea- 
sons of  gayety  and  gladness.  But  if  we  borrow 
trouble,  we  seize  the  cuj)  in  its  untempered  bit- 
terness, before  the  time  has  come  for  the  infusion 
of  what  may  sweeten,  bless,  and  sanctify  it. 

But  there  are  some  who  are  perpetually  dread- 
ing for  themselves  calamities,  which  they  say  they 
would  not  fear  so  much  for  others ;  but  such  is 
their  lot,  —  they  are  the  doomed  ones,  —  they  are 
marks  for  the  shafts  of  adA^ersity,  —  the  cup  may 
pass  from  others,  but  not  from  them.  Have  I  a 
hearer  who  cherishes  such  feelings  ?  If  so,  I 
would  ask  him,  Do  you  deem   God  partial,  as 


DESPONDENCY.  55 

man  is  partial  ?  Do  you  believe  that  lie  will  send 
you  one  trial  more  than  you  need  ?  And  if  you 
really  have  more  trials  than  others,  may  they  not 
be  sent  in  part  to  break  up  your  habit  of  com- 
plaining and  foreboding,  to  lead  you  to  a  calm 
and  quiet  self-commitment  to  the  Divine  protec- 
tion, and  to  fix  in  your  heart  the  spirit  of  cheer- 
ful confidence  ? 

Let  me  again  ask  those  who  permit  themselves 
to  cast  fearful  and  gloomy  looks  into  the  future, 
AVhy  do  you  dread  aught  that  can  befall  you, 
when  none  of  these  things  can  take  place  without 
your  Father  ?  You  must  feel  assured  that  under 
him  all  things  will  work  together  for  your  good. 
You  are  as  little  children  under  his  guidance ; 
and  to  your  short  sight  there  may  be  deep  mys- 
teries in  many  of  his  dispensations,  as  there  al- 
ways are  to  a  child  in  the  course  of  discipline 
chosen  by  a  judicious  earthly  parent.  Lean,  then, 
as  children  upon  his  arm,  and  commit  yourselves 
as  children  to  his  keeping.  Let  him  lead  you  in 
a  way  which  you  know  not.  Say  with  the  Psalm- 
ist,—  "  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  thou  art  with  me.'* 
Make  yourselves,  so  far  as  may  be,  independent 
of  outward  calamity.  Seek  those  treasures  of  the 
inner  man,  that  property  of  the  mind  and  the  af- 
fections, which  can  be  neither  frittered  away  by 
change  nor  destroyed  by  death.  Let  your  true 
life  be  that  hidden  life  of  the  heart,  which  is 
"  most  vigorous  when  the  body  dies."     Let  your 


56  DESrOXDEXCY. 

souls  be  renewed  by  the  transforming  power  of 
your  Saviour's  spirit,  and  then  shall  no  outward 
trouble  have  power  to  harm  you. 

"  The  man  resolved  and  steady  to  his  trust, 
Inflexible  to  ill  and  firmly  just, 
Should  the  whole  frame  of  nature  round  him  break, 
In  ruin  dire  and  wild  confusion  luirled, 
lie  unconcerned  would  meet  the  mighty  wreck, 
And  stand  secure  amidst  a  falling  world." 

I  have  thus  spoken  of  the  folly  and  the  rem- 
edy of  a  disquieted  and  foreboding  spirit.  Let 
me  now  urge  upon  you,  and  upon  my  own  soid, 
the  Psalmist's  self-exhortation,  —  "  Hope  thou  in 
God."  An  unexplored  future  is  before  us.  There 
hangs  over  it  a  veil,  which  no  hand  can  lift,  and 
behind  which  no  eye  can  look.  But,  as  Chris- 
tians, we  have  every  possible  ground  for  trust 
and  hope ;  for  that  unexplored  future  is  in  the 
hands  of  our  Father.  And  in  saying  this,  consid- 
er how  much  we  imply,  —  a  providence  minute, 
perfect,  constant,  —  a  care  for  us  individually, 
extending  itself  to  our  least  interests  and  wants, 

—  an  unslumbering  watchfulness  for  our  good, 

—  a  particular  adaptation  of  whatever  befalls  us 
to  our  true  and  higliest  welfare.  This  doctrine 
of  a  minute  paternal  Providence  is  often  on  our 
lips,  and  were  we  assured  that  it  is  false,  I  doubt 
whetlier  one  of  us  would  be  wilHng  to  incur  tlie 
risks  and  responsibilities  even  of  a  prosperous 
life  for  a  moment  longer.     But  who  among  us 


DESPONDENCY.  57 

gathers  from  this  thouglit  the  support  and  conso- 
lation which  it  might  and  should  afford  ?  Who 
feels  the  slightest  insecurity,  so  far  as  he  can 
have  his  interests  cared  for  by  an  earthly  parent  ? 
AVho  distrusts  the  future  as  to  any  point  in  which 
human  love  can  make  it  blessed  and  happy  ?  Yet 
is  there  not,  in  many  hearts,  a  vague,  undefined, 
latent  feeling  of  insecurity  under  the  Divine  gov- 
ernment ?  Let  us  cast  out  this  feeling,  as  at  war 
both  with  our  intellectual  belief  and  with  the 
teachings  and  spirit  of  Jesus.  God  is  our  Father. 
On  this  one  blessed  truth  let  us  repose.  Here 
let  us  cast  down  our  cares  and  drop  our  bur- 
dens. There  is  a  burden-bearer  with  us,  who  faint- 
eth  not,  neither  is  weary.  Let  us  suppress  the 
thought  of  murmuring  and  repining,  and  say  of 
every  appointment  of  Heaven,  — ''  It  is  the  Lord  ; 
let  him  do- what  secmeth  to  him  good."  True, 
like  Jacob  when  he  left  his  father's  house,  we 
may  often  have  to  lie  down  in  desolateness  and 
sorrow.  Our  pillow,  like  his,  may  often  be  a 
hard  and  a  lonely  one.  But  near  us,  as  near 
him,  will  the  mystic  ladder  be  reared,  and  the 
angels  of  God  descend  with  blessings  for  us  ; 
faith  will  set  up  the  bleak  and  barren  rock  on 
which  we  rested  for  a  pillar  of  thanksgiving ;  and 
when  from  the  heights  of  heaven  we  mark  the 
spot,  we  shall  call  "  the  name  of  the  place 
Bethel." 

Again,  we  have  under  God  one  object  of  hope 


58  DESPONDENCY. 

continually  in  view,  namely,  the  growth  of  our 
characters  ;  and  this  is  the  great  end  for  which, 
were  we  wise,  we  should  desire  to  live.  It  is 
not  merely  in  the  sanctuary  that  we  find  testi- 
mony borne  to  the  truth,  that  the  outward  con- 
dition of  itself  presents  no  adequate  object  of 
hope.  We  see  those  who  bear  the  heaviest  bur- 
dens perfectly  happy,  —  those  whose  burdens  are 
few  or  none,  often  wretched.  And  as  to  ourselves, 
we  cannot  but  be  conscious  that  our  chief  need  is 
of  that  inward  principle  of  holiness,  that  reign 
of  God  in  the  heart,  which  is  complete  in  itself 
without  any  outward  addition.  This,  we  believe, 
is  the  ultimate  purpose  of  all  our  Father's  dispen- 
sations. Does  he  send  outward  favors  and  mer- 
cies ?  It  is  that  gratitude  may  engrave  his  image 
on  our  hearts,  and  Avrite  his  law  on  our  lives. 
Does  he  remove  from  us  cherished  blessings  ? 
"  Every  branch  that  beareth  fruit  he  pruneth, 
that  it  may  bring  forth  more  fruit."  He  takes 
from  us  what  is  not  ourselves,  that  the  hidden 
man  of  the  heart  may  have  a  more  free  and  rapid 
growth.  He  takes  gifts  which  we  were  in  danger 
of  loving  more  than  the  Giver.  He  takes  wealth 
that  bound  our  souls  to  the  sordid  pathway  which 
lie  bids  us  leave.  He  takes  friends,  whose  un- 
quenched  love  and  imdiminished  loveliness  may 
unite  our  spirits  by  new  and  more  intimate  bonds 
with  the  unseen  and  eternal  world.  He  guides 
us  where  we  dread  to  go  ;  but  we  find,  as  wc 


DESPONDENCY.  59 

move  on,  new  energies  of  character,  new  strength 
to  do,  to  bear,  and  overcome,  called  forth.  He 
leads  us  through  deep  waters ;  but  their  baptism 
is  that  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  His  waves  and  billows 
go  over  us  ;  but  they  bear  our  souls  nearer  to 
their  true  rest.  The  outward  he  makes  subser- 
vient to  the  imvard,  the  body  to  the  soul,  time  to 
eternity.  This,  then,  let  us  hope  without  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  —  that,  if  we  are  only  faith- 
ful, every  change,  and  trial,  and  cross  will  make 
us  better,  will  increase  that  treasure  which  is 
within  and  indestructible,  will  render  us  more 
and  more  what  in  our  best  moments  we  wish 
and  pray  that  we  may  become. 

Finally,  heaven  and  eternity,  brought  to  light 
by  Jesus,  re-echo  the  exhortation,  —  "•  Hope  thou 
in  God.'*  Have  we  the  testimony  of  his  love 
within  ?  Are  we  living  by  the  law  and  in  the 
spirit  of  Christ  ?  Have  we  the  consciousness  of 
pardoned  sin  and  of  souls  at  peace  with  God  ?  If 
so,  however  heavy  our  outward  burdens  or  sor- 
rows, we  may  well  ask,  in  self-rebuke,  —  "  Why 
art  thou  cast  down,  0  my  soul  ?  and  why  art 
thou  disquieted  within  me  ?  "  How  brief  the 
longest  space  which  earthly  trials  can  cover ! 
How  short  the  period  during  which  changes  can 
come !  How,  in  comparison  with  eternity  and 
with  ever-growing  joy,  does  all  that  flesh  and 
heart  can  bear,  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  shrink 
into   utter   nothingness !      But   this   inheritance 


60  DESPONDENCY. 

above  is  revealed,  that  faitli  may  use  it  here, — 
that  hope  may  bridge  over  the  few  doubtful  years 
that  remain  with  an  arch,  that  shall  repose  at 
once  on  a  past  full  of  mercy,  and  a  heaven  where 
all  is  sure,  cloudless,  and  eternal.  The  time  is 
indeed  short,  to  some  very  short.  Duty,  love, 
faithfulness,  these  endure  for  ever,  while  the 
world  passes  away,  with  its  desire  and  its  fashion. 
Let  us  seek  those  things  that  are  unseen,  that 
live  through  death,  that  are  born,  and  grow,  and 
ripen  for  eternity. 


SERMON    YI 


THE  DEATH   OF   TPIE  RIGHTEOUS. 

LET    ME    DIE    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS,    AND    LET    MT 

LAST  END  BE  LIKE  HIS.  —  Numbcrs  xxiii.  10. 

These  words  were  wrung  from  a  heart  in  re- 
bellion against  God,  and  at  enmity  with  his  peo- 
ple. Balaam  had  been  sent  for  to  curse  Israel, 
and  went  into  the  neighborhood  where  the  cove- 
nant people  had  encamped  on  tlieir  way  to  the 
promised  land,  full  of  malignant  passions,  and 
prepared  to  utter  railing  and  imprecation.  But 
as  he  cast  his  eyes  over  the  nation  that  God  had 
blessed,  and  saw  their  tents  "  spread  forth  as  gar- 
dens by  the  rivers,  and  as  cedar-trees  beside  the 
waters,"  —  as  he  beheld  the  marks  of  their  unde- 
caying  vigor  and  prosperity,  notwithstanding  their 
lengthened  wanderings  in  the  desert,  —  and  then, 
as  he  looked  across  the  Dead  Sea  to  the  distant 
hills  of  the  fair  land  that  God  had  given  them, 
the  curse  died  upon  his  lips  in  an  earnest  longing 
for  the  inheritance  upon  which  they  were  going 

6 


62  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    KIGHTEOUS. 

to  enter.  "  0  that  I  could  yet  cast  in  my  lot 
among  them !  Let  me  not  remahi  for  ever  an 
alien  from  their  God,  an  outcast  from  their  ranks. 
0  that  my  name  were  written  among  their  tribes, 
that  I  might  die  the  death  of  those  whom  God 
loves,  and  that  my  last  days  might  be  like  theirs ! " 
The  feeling  that  thus  burst  forth  from  the  seer 
of  Moab  cannot  but  enter  every  mind,  however 
thoughtless,  in  witnessing  the  calm  and  hopeful 
departure  from  life  of  those  to  whom  it  was  Christ 
to  live,  and  we  know  that  it  must  be  gain  to  die. 
As  we  behold  them  resigned,  cheerful,  and  happy, 
while  the  death-shadow  steals  over  them,  and  see 
God's  own  peace  reflected  from  their  counte- 
nances as  they  draw  near  the  land  of  promise, 
whatever  our  lives  may  have  been,  we  for  the 
moment  breathe  the  prayer,  —  "Let  me  die  the 
death  of  the  righteous,  and  let  my  last  end  be 
like  his." 

"Why  is  it  that  the  event  of  death  occupies  so 
small  a  space  in  most  men's  thoughts  and  calcu- 
lations, surrounded  as  they  are  by  its  memorials, 
its  knell  ringing  in  their  ears  every  week,  its  sig- 
nal and  impressive  voices,  in  the  removal  of  con- 
spicuous and  active  members  of  society,  succeed- 
ing each  other  at  very  brief  intervals  ?  I  appre- 
hend that  much  of  the  prevalent  thoughtlessness 
with  reference  to  death  results  from  the  absurd, 
unchristian  idea,  that  preparation  for  death  is 
something  entirely  distinct  from  the  work  of  life. 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS.  C3 

There  arc  in  every  Christian  community  scores 
of  people  Avho  have  no  doubt,  that,  when  they  arc 
about  to  die,  they  shall  have  ample  warning,  and 
can  then,  amid  the  last  scenes,  hasten  through 
certain  stereotyped  forms  of  death-bed  penitence 
and  devotion,  which  will  insure  them  a  passport 
to  heaven.  And  if  they  know  when  death  is 
near,  they  will  be  hurried  through  these  forms, 
they  will  have  everything  that  Christian  assiduity 
can  proffer  to  awaken  religious  faith  and  trust, 
they  will  lay  hold  with  trembling  eagerness  on 
the  merciful  words  of  the  Saviour,  and  will  pass 
away  with  expressions  of  feeling,  to  which  fond 
and  partial  friends  cannot  help  giving  a  hopeful 
interpretation,  but  on  which  the  observing  and 
experienced  Christian  is  constrained  to  look  with 
full  as  much  doubt  as  hope,  apprehending  that 
they  flow  from  the  diseased  action  of  a  feverish 
brain. 

The  thouglit  which  I  wish  to  inculcate  in  the 
present  discourse  is,  that  a  Christian  life  is  the 
only  sure  ground  of  hope  in  death.  I  would  rep- 
resent the  work  of  life  and  the  preparation  for 
death  as  one  and  the  same  thing ;  and  would  at- 
tach to  every  portion  of  healthful,  active,  busy 
life  the  associations  of  deep  solemnity,  which  are 
commonly  grouped  around  the  closing  moments 
of  one's  earthly  pilgrimage.  Nay,  I  believe,  that, 
could  we  look  at  things  in  the  light  of  eternity, 
the  shop,  the  counting-room,  the  fireside,  the  so- 


64  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

cial  party,  the  scenes  of  temptation  that  are  scat- 
tered lip  and  down  the  wayside  of  life,  would 
seem  more  solemn  than  the  death-chamber ;  for  it 
is  in  those  that  the  soul  wrestles  with  death,  and 
often  falls  and  dies,  while  through  what  we  call 
the  mortal  agony  the  soul  passes  unscathed. 

In  pursuing  my  present  design,  let  me  first  ask 
your  attention  to  an  invariable  law  of  our  being, 
of  which  we  are  too  prone  to  lose  sight,  namely, 
that  our  success  and  happiness  in  every  new  con- 
dition of  life  depend  upon  our  preparation  for  that 
condition.  We  continually  reap  as  we  sow,  and 
are  both  sowing  and  reaping  every  day.  Our 
earthly  life  is  made  up  of  a  series  of  states  and 
relations,  each  of  which  derives  its  character  from 
the  next  preceding.  Thus,  ^'  the  child  's  the 
father  of  the  man."  Tlie  faults,  follies,  omis- 
sions, and  sins,  or  the  attainments  and  virtues,  of 
youth  determine  our  condition,  seal  our  misery  or 
happiness,  as  men  and  women.  "Were  our  early 
steps  in  the  way  of  transgressors,  "  the  iniquities 
of  our  heels  compass  us  about "  through  life,  and 
we  cannot  escape  them.  Were  we  consecrated 
from  childhood  to  God  and  duty,  we  still  walk  in 
our  uprightness,  and  God's  peace  and  blessing 
rest  upon  our  homes  and  our  daily  ways.  Multi- 
tudes there  are  who  can  bear  sad  and  joyful  tes- 
timony to  the  working  of  this  law,  —  those  whom 
sincere  repentance  has  not  saved  from  keen  suf- 
fering, mortification,  and  besetting  sin,  on  the 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS.  C5 

score  of  early  delinquencies,  —  those  who  bless 
God  to  the  day  of  their  death  for  the  virtuous  au- 
spices which  attended  their  opening  youtli.  Anel 
old  age,  Avhich  lives  upon  the  past,  which  cannot 
hut  feed  on  its  remembrances,  whether  they  yield 
the  bread  of  heaven  or  apples  of  Sodom,  —  old 
age  is  altogether  what  youth  and  manhood  have 
made  it.  AVhere  can  you  point  to  a  happy  old 
age,  where  the  prime  of  life  was  not  marked  by 
purity,  honesty,  diligence,  and  usefulness  ?  Where 
can  you  find  the  hoary  head  bereft  of  peace  and 
hope,  where  earlier  days  were  passed  in  the  fear 
of  God  and  on  the  post  of  duty  ? 

The  case  is  similar  with  the  various  relations 
of  business,  and  of  domestic  and  social  life.  A 
man's  success  and  happiness  in  his  worldly  avoca- 
tion depend,  as  you  all  know,  not  on  his  advan- 
tages, but  on  his  preparation  to  use  them  aright. 
Splendid  advantages  only  lead  to  a  splendid  fail- 
ure, where  they  are  not  connected  with  previous 
training  and  self-discipline.  It  is  not  his  capital 
that  makes  the  merchant,  or  his  tools  the  me- 
chanic, or  his  acres  the  farmer ;  but  it  is  the 
mind,  tliat  patiently  yields  itself  to  the  culture 
and  the  preliminary  trials  which  create  experi- 
ence and  skill. 

The  same  law  holds  good  in  domestic  life.  Tlie 
families  in  which  we  are  born  are  our  nurseries 
for  the  families  of  which  we  become  the  heads. 
We  are,  as  husbands,  wives,  and  parents,  what 

6* 


66  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

WG  were  as  children,  brothers,  and  sisters.  The 
most  felicitous  connection  cannot  make  the  iin- 
dutiful  son  a  good  and  happy  husband,  or  the 
frivolous  daughter  and  selfish  sister  an  honored 
wife,  or  a  mother  worthy  of  the  name.  In  so- 
ciety, too,  in  extended  trusts  and  large  responsi- 
bilities, how  often  are  we  reminded  of  the  early 
traits  of  those  who  have  grown  up  at  our  side ! 
The  little  republic  of  the  school  or  the  play- 
ground trains  the  neighbor,  the  citizen,  the  pub- 
lic functionary.  Those  whom  their  young  com- 
panions trusted  and  loved,  who  were  the  peace- 
makers in  the  petty  quarrels  of  children,  the 
friends  of  truth  and  right  on  the  humble,  yet 
spiritually  momentous  occasions  of  our  early 
days,  are  now,  for  the  most  part,  the  true,  peace- 
ful, upright,  and  trustworthy  men  and  women, 
Avhose  virtues  adorn  and  bless  the  smaller  or 
larger  circles  in  which  they  move.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  petulant,  quarrelsome,  untruthful,  ill- 
nurtured  children,  whose  influence  and  example 
were  to  be  deprecated  among  their  schoolmates 
and  playmates,  are  now  the  talebearers,  mischief- 
makers,  brawlers,  double-dealers,  unloving  and 
unloved,  distrustful  and  distrusted,  in  every  so- 
cial and  public  office  and  relation. 

Now,  how  is  it  that  men  will  not  apply  this 
game  law  to  that  future  state  of  being  on  wliich 
tliey  liope  to  enter?  How  fail  they  to  perceive 
and  understand  that  the  heavenly  society,  like 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    RIGHTEOUS.  C7 

every  other  state  of  being,  needs  and  demands 
preparation,  and  that  preparation  for  it  cannot  bo 
a  mere  formuhx  of  holy  words  mumbled  by  dying 
lips,  but  must  run  through  the  habits,  the  feel- 
ings, the  affections,  the  entire  character  ?  Think 
not,  my  friend,  that  a  mere  name  above  reproach 
among  men,  mere  honesty  and  kindness,  and  a 
reputable  walk  in  your  outward  relations  and 
duties,  will  suffice  for  the  dying  hour.  The  great 
question  is.  Where  is  your  heart  ?  What  are 
your  prevalent  tastes  and  habits  of  thought  ? 
Whence  flows  your  enjoyment?  Where  rest 
your  hopes  ?  Is  your  whole  soul  fixed  on  things 
outward  and  earthly  ?  Is  your  whole  life  bound 
up  in  the  world  that  you  must  leave  ?  Are  you, 
in  the  spiritual  world,  living  as  an  orphan  and  a 
stranger,  —  with  God,  as  though  he  were  not, 
without  prayer,  without  the  consciousness  of  his 
venerable  presence  ?  Are  your  desires  and  plans 
all  earth-bounded,  as  earth-born  ?  If  so,  you 
must  acknowledge  that  you  have  not  within  you 
the  possible  elements  of  happiness  in  the  life  to 
come.  With  such  a  character  as  this,  did  no 
change  take  place  in  you,  but  only  around  you, 
were  the  outward  scenes  which  engross  your 
thoughts  and  affections  swept  away,  every  pleas- 
ure of  sense  cut  off,  every  form  of  outward  activ- 
ity suspended,  and  then  were  the  spiritual  world 
made  clearly  manifest,  new  means  of  moral  growth 
afforded,  new  avenues  of  communion  with  God 


68  THE   DEATH    OB^    THE   IIIGHTEOUS. 

opened,  the  serene  heights  of  virtiie  and  of  piety 
made  to  rise  in  divine  beauty  before  your  siglit, 
all  this  could  only  render  you  wretched ;  for  you 
would  lack  the  preparation  of  spirit,  without 
wliich  these  high  privileges  must  remain  unen- 
joyed,  tliese  lofty  attainments  unattempted.  You 
must  have  entered  here  upon  the  duties  and  the 
joys  of  the  spiritvial  life,  in  order  to  make  them 
even  tolerable  to  you  hereafter.  And  spiritual- 
ity of  thought,  temper,  and  feeling  must,  in  some 
measure,  have  detached  you  from  earthly  objects, 
and  made  them  seem  inferior  and  unessential 
goods,  in  order  for  you  to  resign  them  without 
intense  suffering.  If  you  have  not  learned  to  live 
above  them,  if  you  have  not  elements  of  charac- 
ter which  make  you  independent  of  them,  it  will 
be  utter  misery  for  you  to  be  parted  from  them. 

Tliis  view  demands,  as  a  preparation  for  death, 
not  only  a  decent  formalism,  but  a  strictly  spirit- 
ual religion,  —  a  religion  which  has  its  seat  in  the 
affections,  its  throne  in  the  heart  of  hearts.  Now, 
why  are  we  not  all  diligently  fitting  ourselves  for 
the  home  where  we  hope  to  go  ?  Were  it  some 
distant  city  or  foreign  country  upon  our  own 
planet,  where  we  expected  to  fix  our  residence, 
how  earnestly  sliould  we  seek  an  interest  in  its 
scenes,  its  resources,  and  its  life !  How  eagerly 
should  we  avail  ourselves  of  every  opportunity  of 
exercise  and  training  in  whatever  might  be  pecu- 
liar in  its  condition  and  modes  of  living !     IIow 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    KIGIITEOUS.  C9 

fiist,  in  the  interval  before  embarking,  should  we 
become,  in  desire  and  feeling,  citizens  of  our  fu- 
ture home  !  And  shall  the  city  of  God  form  the 
only  exception  to  this  rule  ?  Shall  we  turn  our 
backs  upon  it  till  driven  to  the  shore  where  we 
must  embark,  and  then  go  Ave  know  not  Avhither? 
Shall  not  prayer,  and  faith,  and  hope  lay  up  treas- 
ures against  our  arrival  thither  ?  Shall  we  not 
take  in  our  hands  and  to  our  hearts  the  map  of 
the  inheritance  which  God  has  given  us,  survey 
its  fair  proportions,  range  in  thought  among  its 
many  mansions,  so  that,  when  we  must  go,  it 
shall  be  to  familiar  scenes,  to  joys  already  begun, 
to  accustomed  duties  and  a  long  cherished  life  ? 

Such,  surely,  is  the  dictate  of  right  reason. 
And  does  the  word  of  God  leave  us  the  choice  of 
any  other  ground  ?  Our  relation  to  the  New 
Testament  is  one  of  the  most  solemn  import.  It 
is  in  this  record  that  we  think  we  have  eternal 
life.  This  is  the  charter  of  our  immortality  and 
our  heavenly  citizenship.  Take  this  away,  and 
what,  where,  is  our  assurance  of  a  life  to  come, 
—  what,  where,  our  hope  for  ourselves  or  our  de- 
parted friends  ?  We  are  all  willing,  glad,  to  go 
to  it  for  the  words  of  immortal  life.  When  the 
beloved  die,  we  delight  to  think  of  the  grave-side 
of  Lazarus,  and  to  listen  to  the  voice  Avhich  the 
realms  of  silence  heard  and  gave  up  their  dead. 
But  if  we  thus  gladly  receive,  and  would  not  for 
worlds   abandon,   the   hope   of  lieaven,  —  if  wo 


70  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

would  shrink  with  horror  from  the  atheist's  icy 
creed,  and  would  rather  never  have  seen  the  light 
than  to  have  it  quenched  in  utter  annihilation,  — 
are  we  not  sacredly  bound  to  embrace  our  Sav- 
iour's doctrine  of  immortality  as  a  whole,  its  con- 
ditions no  less  than  its  promises  ?  But  the  same 
voice  that  proclaimed  that  the  dead  live  for  ever 
has  also  taught,  that,  "  except  a  man  be  born 
again,  he  cannot  see  the  kingdom  of  God."  The 
same  hand  that  led  Lazarus  from  the  land  of 
shadows  back  to  the  home  of  the  living  points  to 
heaven  as  destined  for  those  alone  who  cheerful- 
ly bear  the  cross,  who  lay  up  treasures  above, 
who  do  the  will  of  the  Father,  and  love  one  an- 
other as  he  has  loved  us  all.  On  no  other  con- 
dition has  the  New  Testament  a  word  of  hope  or 
promise  for  us ;  nor  has  Jesus  given  the  slight- 
est ground  for  confidence  or  peace  as  to  the  fu- 
ture to  those  who  now  are  willing  aliens  from 
tlie  life  of  heaven.  If,  then,  you  believe  that 
Jesus  spake  with  authority  from  God,  let  his 
words  as  to  judgment  and  eternity  rouse  you 
from  your  supineness  to  do  the  work  of  life,  and 
enlist  all  your  powers  and  efforts  in  the  only  path 
whicli  can  lead  you  to  fulness  of  joy. 

Thus  do  tlie  law  of  human  life  and  tlie  word 
of  God,  while  they  make  us  solicitous  to  die  tlie 
death  of  the  righteous,  unitedly  urge  upon  us  the 
essential  importance  of  living  his  life.  The  same 
lesson  must  have  impressed  itself  upon  all  who 


THE    DPATII    OF   THE   RIGHTEOUS.  71 

have  been  in  any  degree  familiar  with  the  clos- 
ing scenes  of  life.  It  is  not  the  opportunity  of  a 
death-scene,  not  the  hurried  and  unnatural  utter- 
ances of  a  last  hour,  but  the  whole  previous  char- 
acter, the  direction  which  the  face  and  steps  had 
borne  before  death  seemed  near,  that  cherishes 
or  cruslies  our  hope  for  the  departed.  Of  those 
not  personally  religious,  many  die  and  leave  no 
sign  ;  sometimes  they  are  cut  down  in  unwarned 
dissolution  ;  and  when  the  approaching  footsteps 
of  death  are  perceived,  it  often  creeps  over  the 
soul  before  it  chills  the  limbs,  and  the  patient 
sinks  into  a  lethargic  ease  and  self-complacency, 
from  which  no  appeal  can  rouse  him.  Others 
are  awakened,  alarmed,  agitated,  pass  through  a 
paroxysm  of  fearful  agony,  emerge  from  it  with 
words  of  exultation  and  triumph,  and  then  die 
fearless  and  happy,  with  a  louder  and  more  elas- 
tic confidence  than  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  the 
mature  and  experienced  Christian.  When  this 
unwonted  manifestation  of  feeling  comes  at  the 
close  of  an  innocent,  serious,  dutiful  life,  though 
there  may  have  been  no  previous  religious  profes- 
sion, it  is  no  doubt  frequently  to  be  regarded  as 
the  rush  for  utterance,  at  the  last  moment,  of 
thoughts  and  emotions  which  diffidence  had  pre- 
viously suppressed.  But  when  a  careless,  world- 
ly, sinful  life  closes  with  this  spasmodic  semblance 
of  piety,  there  is  reason  to  apprehend  that  the 
utterances  of  the  last  hour  are  unmeaning  words, 


72  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

caught  up  in  a  state  of  mental  imbecility  from 
surrounding  friends,  or  copied  from  the  remem- 
brance or  record  of  similar  scenes,  or  the  result 
of  a  nervous  excitement  too  strong  for  the  shat- 
tered body  and  enfeebled  mind  to  restrain.  They 
do,  indeed,  suggest  hope ;  for  we  remember  the 
malefactor  upon  the  cross,  we  think  of  the  over- 
flowing mercy  of  our  Father,  and  may  thus  be 
led  to  cherish  and  offer  more  encouragement  than 
calm  reflection  would  warrant.  But  why,  by 
such  a  death-bed,  do  we  listen  so  anxiously  for 
the  last  words,  and  catch  so  eagerly  at  whatever 
stimulates  the  expression  of  calm  and  rational 
faith  or  of  filial  trust  ?  Why  do  friends  question 
each  other  so  earnestly  as  to  every  word,  and  look, 
and  gesture,  of  the  dying  ?  It  is  because  we 
feel  so  sensibly  the  discrepancy  between  the  life 
that  is  closing  and  the  life  of  heaven,  —  because 
the  two  have  nothing  in  common,  but  a  broad 
and  deep  gulf  lies  between  them ;  and  we  long 
for  something,  shadowy  though  it  be,  to  fill  up 
the  chasm,  —  we  would  bridge  tlie  gulf  with  a 
rainbow,  rather  than  not  see  it  spanned,  —  we 
will  accept  almost  anything,  however  vague  and 
unsatisfactory  in  itself,  which  may  go  towards 
softening  the  discrepancy  and  establishing  some 
faint  sliow  of  connection  between  the  life  which 
the  dying  one  has  led  and  that  which  we  hope 
for  him.  This  hanging  upon  last  words  indicates 
a  latent  consciousness  that  we  need  and  crave 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS.  73 

some  better  evidence,  —  that  the  testimony  of  the 
life  alone  can  satisfy  us  as  regards  tliose  that  die. 
But  there  is  a  life  which  terminates  naturally 
and  necessarily  in  heaven.  There  sometimes 
pass  away  from  us  those  whose  death-chamber 
seems  an  ascension-mount,  and  we  can  almost 
see  them  go,  so  sure  we  are  that  they  go  home 
to  God.     From  them  we  need  no  parting  words, 

—  nay,  we  sometimes  feel  glad  that  no  strongly 
marked  closing  scene  intervenes  to  rival  the  beau- 
tiful testimony  of  a  holy  life,  and  to  distract  our 
thoughts  from  their  free  range  over  the  succes- 
sive stages  of  a  heavenward  pilgrimage.  We  ask 
not  added  proof  that  they  are  happy.  We  desire 
not  that  the  closing  days  should  wear  a  different 
complexion  from  that  of  their  days  of  active  duty. 
We  prefer  witnessing  till  the  last  moment  the 
same  blending  of  social  and  religious  traits  and 
affections,  which  we  have  seen  in  them  for  months 
and  years.  Our  best  prayer  for  them  is,  that 
they  may  die  as  they  have  lived.  Should  tlie  call 
come  suddenly  or  unperceived  by  them,  there  is 
nothing  wanting,  nothing  left  to  be  wrought  in  a 
hurry  and  agitation  of  impending  death,  no  ex- 
piring torch  to  be  trimmed,  no  wedding  garment 
to  be  sought,  and  fitted,  and  hastily  thrown  on, 
when  the  king  comes  in  to  see  the  guests.  They 
waited  not  to  trim  their  lamps,  till  the  cry  arose, 

—  "  Behold,  he  cometh  !  "  Their  robes  were  long 
since  washed  white,  and  made  ready  for  their 


74  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    RIGHTEOUS. 

Lord's  appearing.  Our  assurance  that  they  have 
found  it  riin  to  die  dates  back  even  to  early  years. 
It  flows  from  a  youth  redeemed  from  vanity  and 
consecrated  to  the  Most  High,  —  from  virtues 
that  grew  with  the  growth  and  strengthened  with 
the  strength,  —  from  successive  occasions  and 
posts  of  duty  met  and  filled  with  unshrinking 
fidelity,  —  from  years  of  hallowed  effort,  example, 
and  sacrifice  in  every  relation  of  domestic  life, — 
from  kindness,  sympathy,  and  love  extended 
throughout  the  larger  circle,  from  the  homes  of 
the  poor  and  the  hearts  of  the  fatherless,  —  from 
a  walk  with  God  in  a  manifestly  prayerful  and 
devout  spirit,  —  from  a  walk  with  man,  to  which 
religion  always  gave  its  unction  and  its  glow. 
Where  but  in  heaven  can  such  a  path  have  end- 
ed? Where  else  can  such  features  of  spiritual 
life  have  gone  ?  What  possible  doubt,  what  short 
of  a  certainty  not  to  be  made  surer,  can  rest  upon 
their  2:)resent  condition  ?  Their  characters  were 
of  heaven  ;  their  virtues  were  such  as  have  honor 
in  the  presence  of  God ;  and  "  the  Father  seek- 
eth  such  to  worship  him." 

Nor  can  our  friends  have  lost  in  heaven  aught 
of  those  traits  of  character  which  endeared  them 
to  us  here,  and  which  all  find  room  for  exercise, 
and  for  still  fuller,  loftier  development,  in  that 
better  home.  Were  they  true  and  faithful  ?  On 
God*s  holy  mount  they  still  "  walk  uprightly  and 
work  righteousness."     Wore  they  the  friends  of 


TUE    DEATH    OF    THE    KIGIITEOUS.  75 

Jesus  ?  They  now  "  follow  the  Lamb,  whither- 
soever he  gocth."  Were  they  lovely  and  happy 
in  every  home  relation  and  duty  ?  They  have 
kindred  there,  whom  they  have  rejoined,  —  those 
of  their  earthly  liome,  who  have  gladly  welcomed 
them  to  the  heavenly  household.  Were  they 
known  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor,  and  did 
prayers  go  up  for  their  longer  life  from  stricken 
hearts  that  had  been  blessed  through  their  minis- 
try ?  There  are  works  of  love  to  be  wrouglit  by 
the  redeemed,  —  divine  offices  of  mercy,  for  which 
the  walks  of  earthly  charity  are  ordained  to  train 
and  perfect  the  Christian  soul.  Did  they  love 
and  keep  the  commandments  of  the  Most  High  ? 
Now  "  he  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne  shall  dwell 
among  them,"  and  they  go  no  more  out  from  his 
felt  presence  for  ever. 


SERMON    YII 


MEMORY. 

A   BOOK   OP   REMEMBRANCE   WAS   WRITTEN. — MalacW  ill.  16. 

I  HAVE  taken  these  words  as  an  appropriate 
motto  for  a  sermon  on  memory,  considered  in  its 
moral  and  religious  bearings,  in  its  connection 
with  critical  seasons  and  emergencies  of  life,  and 
in  its  relation  to  God's  retributive  justice  in  the 
future  world. 

I  would  first  remark,  that  there  is  abundant 
reason  to  believe  that  memory  never  loses  any- 
thing, but  that  it  retains,  and  may  reproduce, 
when  the  right  string  is  touched,  every  thought, 
impression,  and  event  of  our  whole  past  lives. 
The  well-ascertained  phenomena  of  delirium,  in- 
sanity, and  otlier  unusual  forms  of  consciousness, 
furnisli  ample  demonstration  of  this  statement. 
In  these  conditions  of  mind,  it  has  been  found 
that  the  most  minute  and  remote  circumstances, 
complex  trains  of  thought,  series  of  words  or 
musical  notes,  words  even  in  o,n  unknown  tongue, 


MEMORY.  77 

have  been  recalled  after  an  interval  of  years,  and 
flooded  the  sonl  with  its  rememberings.  In  our 
usual  state  of  mind,  things  do  not  indeed  return 
to  us  uncalled,  nor  yet  do  they  come  at  once 
when  sought,  but  obey  certain  laws  of  sugges- 
tion or  association,  which  retard  the  action  of 
the  memory,  as  the  balance-wheel  does  the  move> 
ments  of  a  watch.  But  in  the  modes  of  con> 
sciousness  now  referred  to,  the  balance-wheel  is 
taken  off,  the  usual  laws  of  suggestion  are  sus- 
pended, the  full  flow  of  memory  takes  the  place 
of  the  scanty  jet  of  recollection,  and  the  whole 
past  rushes  spontaneously  upon  the  mind,  fore- 
shadowing the  day  when  death  will  snap  asunder 
the  earth-spun  threads  of  association,  and  pour 
the  accumulated  treasures  of  the  past  into  the  lap 
of  the  boundless  future. 

But  we  need  not  go  beyond  our  own  familiar 
experience  to  verify  this  view.  Revisit  some 
scenes  of  early  life,  from  which  you  have  been 
absent  twenty,  thirty,  or  forty  years,  and  what 
intensely  vivid  remembrances  take  shape,  hue, 
and  voice !  The  faces  and  tones  of  the  long 
forgotten,  the  very  trees  and  stones  now  dis- 
lodged, the  prattle  and  the  day-dreams  of  in- 
fancy, every  evanescent  frame  of  thought  and 
feeling,  will  be  recalled,  and  you  find  yourself 
again  a  child.  There  is  not  a  reverie  that  ever 
flitted  across  our  minds,  not  a  dream  that  ever 
haunted  our  pillows,  which  has  gone  beyond  rc- 

7* 


78  MEMORY. 

turn.  Nor  is  there  a  single  day,  when  strange 
and  isolated  facts,  fragments  of  conversations, 
vague,  floating  images  of  ancient  and  forgotten 
things,  do  not  thus  rise  before  us,  like  ghosts 
of  the  unburied. 

Thus  the  past  never  dies,  though,  in  the  com- 
mon routine  of  life,  we  have  to  a  degree  the  keys 
of  memory  in  our  own  hands,  and  may  admit  or 
exclude  recollections  at  pleasure.  But  there  are 
seasons,  and  those  not  rare,  when  the  keys  are 
taken  from  us,  and,  without  the  power  of  choice, 
we  are  liable  to  inundations  from  the  good  or 
evil,  the  sweet  or  bitter,  of  the  past,  promis- 
cuously. Indeed,  these  seasons  are  so  frequent 
with  us  all,  that  a  large  part  of  our  happiness 
is  placed  irrevocably  out  of  our  own  keeping, — 
transferred  from  our  present  to  our  past  selves. 
Our  unoccupied  time,  our  vacant  hours  by  day, 
our  sleepless  night-watches,  are  thus  given  over 
to  tlie  genius  of  memory ;  and  whatever  there 
may  be  worthy  of  regret  in  the  past  is  then  un- 
failingly brought  up  to  arm  the  passing  moments 
with  daggers'  points,  or  to  plant  thorns  in  our 
pillows.  The  more  harassing  the  remembrance, 
the  more  closely  it  besets  us.  The  visitings  of 
any  one  such  phantom  may  indeed  cease,  or  at 
least  its  sting  may  become  mollified,  after  a  long 
lapse  of  time,  but  not  till  we  have  exorcised  it, 
not  only  by  reiterated  repentance,  but  by  entire 
conversion,  by   the   thorough   alienation   of  the 


MEMORY.  79 

temper  and  the  character  from  wliat  tlms  gave 
us  trouble.  And  even  then,  hke  an  old  wound 
long  healed,  which  an  east  wind  will  fill  with 
neuralgic  pain,  may  not  this  unwelcome  remem- 
brance be  revived  with  afflictive  power,  at  in- 
tervals we  know  not  how  remote  ? 

In  seasons  of  sorrow,  the  past  always  utters 
its  voices.  At  such  times  God  brings  every  work 
into  remembrance,  and  enters  into  judgment  with 
our  spirits.  When  the  hand  of  Providence  is 
heavy  upon  us,  if  the  past  has  been  stained  with 
guilt,  we  need  no  inscription  upon  the  wall  to 
make  our  knees  smite  together  and  our  souls 
tremble.  The  handwriting  is  upon  the  fleshly 
tablets  of  the  heart,  —  "  Thou  art  weighed  in  the 
balance  and  found  wanting."  There  is  nothing 
more  true  to  universal  experience  than  the  self- 
reproaching  communings  of  Joseph's  brethren 
when  they  felt  themselves  surrounded  by  im- 
minent perils  in  a  strange  land.  Their  mem- 
ory glided  over  the  long  period  for  which  they 
had  led  self-complacent  and  generally  dutiful 
lives,  and  rested  on  the  one  damning  sin  of 
former  years  ;  "  and  they  said  one  to  another. 
We  are  verily  guilty  concerning  our  brother, 
in  that  we  saw  the  anguish  of  his  soul  when  he 
besought  us,  and  we  would  not  hear;  therefore 
is  this  distress  come  upon  us."  A  vast  amount 
of  remorse  mingles  with  human  grief,  and  drugs 
to  the  utmost  with  gall  and  wormwood  the  cup 


80  ME3I0RT. 

of  sorrow.  When  ill-gotton  and  ill-used  wealth 
departs,  the  remembrance  of  numberless  breaches 
of  good  faith  and  charity  arms  penury  with  a 
scourge  of  scorpions,  which  she  never  wields 
when  she  enters  the  dwellings  of  God's  chosen 
ones.  AVhen  the  unfaithful  and  unloving  are 
separated  by  death,  with  the  sorrows  of  bereave- 
ment there  blend  the  embittering  recollections 
of  violated  duty,  variance,  and  discord. 

But  compare  with  the  sad  retrospect  which 
Providence  forces  upon  the  guilty  the  rich  remi- 
niscences which  crowded  Job's  mind,  when  health, 
riches,  and  children  were  at  once  taken  from  him. 
"  When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me  ; 
and  when  the  eye  saw  me,  it  gave  witness  to  me ; 
because  I  delivered  the  poor  that  cried,  the  fa- 
therless, and  him  that  had  none  to  help  him. 
The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish 
came  upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart 
to  sing  for  joy.  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet 
was  I  to  the  lame.  I  was  a  father  to  the  poor." 
And  with  a  past  so  full  of  consolation  in  the  re- 
view, no  wonder  that  he  could  break  forth  in 
those  noble  words  of  undoubting  faith  and  hope, 
—  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer  livetli,  and  will 
stand  up  at  length  on  the  earth  ;  and  though 
with  my  skin  this  body  be  wasted  away,  3'et  in 
my  flesh  shall  I  see  God." 

Most  of  all,  death,  as  it  is  passing  the  book  of 
memory  over  to  the  register  of  eternity,  rehearses 


MEMORY.  81 

its  records  in  the  car  fast  closing  to  the  outward 
world.  I  have  often  been  startled  by  the  keen 
recollection  of  the  fatally  sick,  tlie  declining,  and 
the  dying.  The  mind,  as  death  draws  nigh,  can- 
not be  diverted  from  the  past ;  but  will  scan  it 
Avith  the  most  wakeful,  earnest  scrutiny,  will 
wait  for  it  to  utter  all  its  voices,  whether  of 
approval  or  of  condemnation,  and  will  not  resign 
itself  in  perfect  peace,  unless  the  past  wear  a 
smiling  aspect,  and  be  contemplated  with  a  con- 
science that  a^Dprovcs  much  more  than  it  con- 
demns. True,  we  are  saved  by  hope.  Heaven 
is  ours,  "  not  for  works  of  righteousness  that  we 
have  done "  ;  yet  such  works  are  the  only  seal 
of  God's  pardon  and  acceptance  that  will  satisfy 
us  in  the  dying  hour.  Under  the  gnawings  of 
fatal  disease,  new  work  is  seldom  done,  new 
ideas  are  seldom  acquired,  new  resources  sel- 
dom opened.  The  mind  is  thus  thrown  back 
upon  its  remembered  experience,  and  acts  upon 
it  with  unabated  keenness  and  strength.  Then, 
too,  in  all  its  consolations  and  hopes  it  seeks  to 
be  supported  and  confirmed  by  memory.  With 
those  who  cherish  religious  sentiments  and  af- 
fections at  the  close  of  life,  and  who  desire  to 
fall  asleep  in  Jesus,  there  is  frequently  witnessed 
an  anxious  and  painful  self-questioning  to  which 
memory  alone  can  respond.  The  inquiry  is, — 
"  Is  there  nothing  unusual,  unnatural,  in  my 
present   feelings  ?      Are   they   the   fruit   of  true 


82  MEMORY. 

piety  towards  God ;  or  are  they  the  mere  wan- 
dermgs  of  a  sickly,  dreaming  imagination?" 
This  is  a  question  which  none  can  happily  an- 
swer, except  those  who  can  look  back  upon  days 
of  active  and  healthful  piety,  and  make  these 
their  term  of  comparison  ;  —  who  can  say,  — 
"  This  is  indeed  no  new  glow,  no  strange  fire, 
but  the  same  that  warmed  me  for  duty  and  for 
conflict  while  my  health  was  firm,  —  the  same 
that  gave  fervor  to  my  daily  prayers,  burned 
in  my  soul  at  the  public  altar,  and  inspired 
me  for  the  words  of  Christian  counsel  and 
sympathy,  and  the  labors  of  a  willing  charity. 
My  joy  in  God,  my  trust  in  Jesus,  my  hope  of 
heaven,  which  now  sustain  my  sinking  spirit, 
have  been  the  staff  of  my  life,  —  I  have  tested 
their  genuineness,  I  have  made  full  trial  of  their 
power,  I  know  that  they  are  from  the  Father, 
and  cannot  fail  me."  This,  my  friends,  is  no 
fancy  sketch.  Such  questionings  I  have  often 
heard  from  the  perilously  sick  and  the  dying. 
They  themselves  are  prone  to  distrust  new-born 
faith  and  piety.  They  need  memory  for  a  wit- 
ness in  their  behalf.  This  testimony  a  death- 
bed repentance  lacks  ;  and  therefore  it  finds  no 
medium  between  vehement,  self-forgetting  excite- 
ment and  utter  despondency. 

But  it  is  asked.  Is  it  within  our  own  power  to 
lay  up  remembrances  that  will  give  peace  and 
pleasure  ?     Are  not  many  of  the  events  of  life 


MEMORY.  83 

(and  some  of  them  siicli  as  we  can  never  forget) 
entirely  beyond  our  own  agency?  May  not  an 
always  frowning  Providence,  without  our  fault, 
fill  the  book  of  memory  with  dismal  and  mourn- 
fid  entries  ?  I  answer.  No  ;  for  it  is  not  events, 
but  our  own  traits  of  character  and  conduct 
alone,  that  are  capable  of  giving  us  anguish  in 
the  remote  retrospect.  It  is  astonishing  how 
smooth  the  roughest  ways  of  Providence  look 
at  a  little  distance.  Sickness,  bereavement,  dis- 
appointment, though  agonizing  in  their  immedi- 
ate pressure,  are  remembered  without  torment, 
—  nay,  if  they  were  submissively  borne,  their 
place,  in  the  way  tliat  we  have  been  led,  is 
marked  by  a  pillar  of  gratitude,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion. Bethel.  If  shadows  gather  about  our  dy- 
ing bed,  they  will  be  the  shadows  of  our  neg- 
ligences, follies,  and  sins.  But  if  our  lives  have 
been  faithful,  devout,  and  loving,  then  will  the 
remembrance  of  what  we  were  through  the  grace 
of  God,  and  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience 
glancing  to  and  fro  through  the  years  that  are 
gone,  give  peace  and  triumph  to  our  departing 
spirits,  and  enable  us  to  feel  that  God  is  tak- 
ing us  to  a  rest  for  which  he  had  first  fitted  us. 
These  thoughts  evince  the  necessity  of  laying 
up  remembrances  for  the  hour  of  death.  Most 
emphatic  are  the  lessons  to  this  effect  which 
have  gone  forth  from  the  death-beds  of  those 
that  have  passed  away  from  our  own  circle.     I 


84  MEMOKY. 

have  heard  the  pure  and  devout  regret  eveii 
havmg  read  what  was  unedifying  and  frivolous  ; 
for,  said  they,  ^'  there  is  hardly  an  evil  or  foolish 
thing  that  has  ever  met  our  eyes,  however  little 
hold  we  meant  to  give  it  upon  our  minds,  that 
docs  not  come  back  to  us  now."  Nor  is  it  barely 
enough  to  have  an  empty  conscience,  and  to  look 
back  upon  a  life  free  from  reproach,  yet  void  of 
spiritual  good.  A  merely  worldly  life  cannot 
present  a  satisfying  retrospect  from  the  bed  of 
death.  Wo  shall  then  need  remembrances  of 
duty,  virtue,  love,  and  piety.  Life  must  have 
had  its  work,  and  must  in  some  good  degree 
have  fulfilled  its  mission.  There  must  be  a 
past  filled  with  those  things  by  which  character 
grows,  man  is  served,  and  God  glorified.  A 
recent  German  writer,  in  a  fictitious  sketch,  in- 
troduces a  worthy  youth  as  compiling  a  book 
of  pleasant  experiences  to  be  read  for  his  com- 
fort at  the  hour  of  death.  Such  a  book  it  con- 
cerns us  all  to  write,  not  on  paper,  but  on  the 
surer  and  more  lasting  tablet  of  a  memory  that 
cannot  die.  When  we  lie  down  to  our  last  sleep, 
let  our  thouglits,  as  they  must  needs  run  back, 
rest  upon  a  life  of  fidelity  and  devotion,  upon 
frequent  visitings  of  angels  and  the  felt  smile  of 
Heaven,  upon  a  growing  and  deep  experience 
of  that  love  of  God  through  Christ  Jesus  from 
which  neitJier  life  nor  death  can  divide  or  alien- 
ate us. 


MEMORY.  85 

I  wish  now  to  present  the  bearing  wliich  this 
view  of  memory  has  on  the  doctrine  of  a  future 
rigliteous  retribution.  ''I  saw  the  dead,"  says 
St.  John,  —  "I  saw  the  dead,  both  small  and 
great,  stand  before  God.  And  the  books  were 
opened,  and  the  dead  were  judged  out  of  those 
tilings  which  were  written  in  the  books,  accord- 
ing to  their  works."  And  out  of  what  books  can 
they  be  thus  judged,  except  those  of  memory, — 
books  written  by  themselves,  but  preserved  by 
God,  and  opened  at  the  solemn  hour  of  death  for 
their  acquittal  or  condemnation  ?  If  the  past  is 
thus  to  be  brought  to  light,  may  not  memory  be 
the  prime-minister  of  God's  retributive  justice, — 
the  worm  that  never  dies,  the  fire  that  is  never 
quenched,  in  the  sinner's  soul, — the  peace  of 
God,  that  passeth  all  understanding,  to  the  pure 
and  faitliful  spirit  ?  Of  the  power  of  memory  for 
good  or  evil  we  have  in  this  life  ample  experience 
from  the  torn  and  scattered  leaves  of  its  book, 
with  wliich  recollection  furnishes  us.  What  an- 
guish can  be  compared  with  the  remorse  that 
gnaws  the  breast  of  the  betrayer  of  innocence,  — 
of  him  whose  profligacy  has  brought  the  gray 
hairs  of  parents  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  —  of 
him  whose  every  retrospect  is  rayless  and  guilt- 
stained  ?  What  more  apt  type  does  earth  afford 
of  heaven,  than  in  the  calm  and  honored  decline 
of  a  faithful  and  devout  life,  which  consecrated  to 
God  the  dew  of  its  youth  and  the  fulness  of  its 

8 


86  MEMORY. 

strength,  which  grew  in  virtue  as  in  years,  which 
ripened  steadily  for  heaven  as  its  summer  leaf 
grew  sear  ?  How  deep,  then,  must  be  the  de- 
spair, or  how  full  the  joy,  of  those  before  whom 
the  veil  is  all  rolled  away,  and  every  secret  or 
forgotten  thing,  be  it  good  or  evil,  brought  to 
light ! 

Imagine  the  abandoned  sinner  full  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  God,  no  sentence  passed  upon  him 
but  that  which  he  is  constrained  to  pass  upon  him- 
self, no  lire  let  loose  upon  him  but  that  which 
memory  can  kindle.  What  is  the  view  upon 
which  he  cannot  close  his  reluctant  sight  ?  The 
God,  whom  he  now  sees  to  be  merciful  as  well  as 
holy,  whose  very  judgment-seat  is  a  throne  of 
love,  who  hides  not  even  from  the  reprobate  and 
hell-doomed  the  paternal  aspects  of  his  character, 
—  that  God,  that  Father,  he  has  set  at  naught, 
neglected,  scorned,  perhaps  blasphemed.  Show- 
ers of  blessing  fell  thick  on  every  portion  of  his 
earthly  pilgrimage,  unacknowledged,  unheeded. 
Voices  of  love  were  daily,  hourly,  wooing  him 
heavenward  ;  but  he  has  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all 
of  them.  His  ingratitude,  seen  in  memory's 
clear  light,  seems  black  as  midnight.  He  turns 
from  an  insulted  God  to  the  company  of  his 
fellow-spirits.  And  here  memory  again  torments 
him.  It  brings  up  luimerous  violations  of  the 
law  of  justice  and  of  kindness,  neglected  opportu- 
nities of  mercy,  successful  conflicts  of  selfishness 


MEMORY.  87 

with  brotherly  love.  lie  is  in  the  midst  of  the 
injured  and  the  outraged,  and  knows  not  where 
to  look  for  sympathy  and  love.  Memory  thus 
isolates  him,  makes  him  both  afraid  and  ashamed 
to  trust  either  God  or  man,  bids  him  dread  the 
frown  of  the  Almighty  and  shrink  from  the  scorn 
of  his  brethren.  Apply  to  this  quiet  outline  the 
several  degrees  of  coloring  which  belong  to  the 
different  shades  of  human  guilt,  and  though  I  say 
not  that  this  is  all,  have  you  not  even  here  a  hell, 
in  which  the  workers  of  iniquity  cannot  fail  to 
receive  according  to  their  works  ? 

Pass  now  to  the  right  hand  of  the  Judge. 
Contemplate  a  truly  humble,  devout,  exemplary 
Christian,  with  the  holy  thoughts  and  good  deeds 
of  a  long  life  of  piety  spread  out  before  him,  not 
veiled,  as  they  were  on  earth,  by  the  self-abase- 
ment of  a  lowly  spirit,  but  sparkling  in  heaven's 
pure  sunlight,  seen  of  angels,  owned  by  the  be- 
nignant Redeemer,  approved  by  God,  the  Judge 
of  all.  Moreover,  as  his  earthly  life  is  thus  re- 
viewed in  heaven,  he  sees  not  only  each  act  itself, 
but  its  happy,  glorious,  perhaps  still  widening  and 
brightening  results.  Did  he  sow  a  seed  of  hum- 
ble charity  ?  He  sees  not  the  seed,  but  the  tree 
which  has  sprung  from  it.  Did  he  cast  his  bread 
upon  the  waters  ?  He  sees  not  the  bread,  but 
the  hungering  souls  whom  it  has  nourished.  Did 
he  labor,  and  pray,  and  live,  for  the  salvation  of 
souls  ?     He  sees  not  his  efforts,  but  their  fruits, 


88  MEMORY. 

going  forth,  it  may  be,  even  for  the  healing  of 
the  nations.  For  these  fruits  are  a  part  of  his 
prayer  of  faith  and  labor  of  love.  They  were  so 
in  the  determined  counsel  and  foreknowledge  of 
God.  They  are  so  in  the  undecaying  memory 
which  dwells  with  him  in  the  home  of  the  blessed. 
I  say  not,  indeed,  that  these  remembrances  con- 
stitute the  sole  or  the  chief  happiness  of  heaven. 
They  are  but  the  beginnings  of  celestial  joy, — 
the  starting-point  on  the  career  of  eternal  glory  ; 
and  thence  there  is  a  constant  pressing  onward 
and  upward  on  the  path  which  waxes  brighter 
and  brighter  to  the  perfect  day. 

There  is  one  question  which,  I  doubt  not,  has 
suggested  itself  to  some  of  you.  The  best  of  men 
have  been,  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  sinners ; 
and,  if  memory  be  perfect  and  entire,  while  the 
pious  look  back  with  pleasure  upon  their  good 
deeds,  must  not  the  remembrance  of  their  follies 
and  sins  cloud  their  joy,  and  mingle  strains  of 
sadness  with  their  songs  of  rapture  ?  For  those 
who  deem  piety  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  who 
rely  strongly  on  death-bed  penitence,  I  care  not 
to  answer  this  question.  I  am  entirely  willing 
to  leave  their  difficulties  unsolved ;  for  the  more 
numerous  the  doubts  that  hang  over  the  fate  of 
liim  whose  first  sighs  of  contrition  are  the  last  of 
life,  the  better  is  it  for  tlie  living,  while,  with  all 
our  doubts,  we  can  commit  such  a  one,  when  dy- 
ing, to  the  overflowing  mercy  of  God,  and  hope 


MEMORY.  89 

for  the  best.  But  for  those  who  understand  by 
piety  the  frame  of  the  life,  not  the  hasty  utter- 
ances of  the  death-agony,  who  mean  by  it  faith 
and  love  made  manifest  in  a  sober,  righteous, 
and  godly  conversation,  I  have  a  ready  answer. 
To  the  awakened  memory  of  the  consistently 
virtuous,  in  the  world  to  come,  worthy  and  holy 
tlioughts  and  deeds  must  so  occupy  the  fore- 
ground as  to  throw  follies  and  sins  completely 
into  the  shade.  Then,  too,  against  every  diso- 
bedient purpose  and  act  there  will  be  written 
in  the  book  of  memory  the  cancelling  vows  of 
contrition  that  succeeded  it,  and  the  holy  reso- 
lutions that  forbade  its  repetition.  The  sins  of 
the  exemplary  and  devout  will  be  to  them  in 
heaven  as  the  sins  of  our  infancy  are  to  us 
now.  We  recollect  our  childish  follies,  and  the 
chiding  and  the  pain  which  attended  them ;  but 
if  they  were  outgrown,  forsaken,  and  forgiven, 
and  if,  while  tliey  lie  back  in  the  dim  distance 
of  many  years,  we  have  built  fair  and  pleasing 
structures  in  tlie  foreground,  these  so  occupy  the 
view  as  to  prevent  the  eye  from  resting  painfully 
on  earlier  guilt.  But  experience  shows  that  in 
no  other  way  can  early  sins  be  kept  out  of  dis- 
tinct and  appalling  view  ;  nor  can  we  conceive 
of  any  other  way  in  which  even  repented  sin 
can  fail  to  disturb  our  peace  in  the  world  to 
come.  The  grovelling  edifices  of  iniquity  can- 
not conceal  each  other.      Nor  can  virtue  cover 

8* 


90  MEMORY. 

sin  ;   but,  at  best,  can  only  eclipse  it  and  cast 
it  into  the  shade. 

If  the  yie^vs  which  I  have  now  presented  be 
just,  they  are  of  vast  practical  importance.  They 
expound,  and  at  the  same  time  invest  with  a  mo- 
mentous interest,  such  declarations  of  Scripture 
as  these  :  —  "  God  will  bring  every  work  into 
judgment,  with  every  secret  thing,  whether  it 
be  good  or  whether  it  be  evil."  "  For  every 
idle  word  which  men  shall  speak  they  must 
give  account  at  the  day  of  judgment."  If  a 
book  of  remembrance  is  kept,  and  if  every 
entry  on  its  pages  is  to  be  brought  to  light, 
how  vigilant  should  this  prospect  make  us  in 
the  least  things  as  well  as  in  the  greatest,  in 
the  government  of  our  hearts  as  well  as  in  the 
conduct  of  our  lives,  —  how  prayerful  against 
secret  faults,  —  how  watchful  against  besetting 
sins !  For  the  young,  our  doctrine  has  encour- 
agement and  promise,  oifering  them,  if  they  will 
keep  their  youth  imdefiled,  a  stainless  and  bea- 
tific retrosjDCct  as  the  rich  first-fruits  of  heav- 
ciily  joy-  For  those  who  have  wandered  from 
the  path  of  rectitude,  it  utters  a  voice  of  warn- 
ing, bidding  them  trust  not  to  a  late  repent- 
ance, which  will  still  leave  the  book  of  remem- 
brance stained  and  blackened,  and  may  not 
suffice  to  save  them  from  a  communion  with 
the  past,  which  will  fill  their  disembodied  spir- 
its with  horror  and  despair. 


MEMORY.  91 

God  also  has  a  book  of  remembrance,  com- 
posed of  the  fair  and  unspotted  leaves  from  men's 
books ;  and  it  is  written  "  for  them  that  fear  the 
Lord,  and  think  upon  his  name."  May  our 
books  of  remembrance  be  so  pure  and  stainless 
that  their  record  shall  be  transferred  to  his,  that 
thus  we  may  be  among  those  of  whom  it  is  writ- 
ten, — "  And  they  shall  be  mine,  saith  the  Lord 
of  hosts,  in  that  day  when  I  make  up  my  jewels  ; 
and  I  will  spare  them,  as  a  man  spare th  his  own 
son  that  serveth  him." 


SERMON    YIII. 


SUDDEN    DEATH. 

TE   KXCW   NEITHER    THE   DAY   NOR   THE    HOUR   'WnEREIN   THB 
SON    OF   MAN    COMETH.  —  MattllCW  XXV.  13. 

Nature  has  her  times  and  seasons.  Through- 
out her  inanimate  and  irrational  kingdoms,  bloom 
and  decay,  youth  and  age,  life  and  death,  succeed 
each  other  at  periods  that  can  be  foreseen  and 
calculated.  The  flowers  discharge  their  bright 
ministry  of  love,  elaborate  their  seeds,  and  die 
not  till  their  work  is  done.  The  hoary  oak  re- 
tains its  A-igor  for  ages,  is  ages  more  in  dying, 
and  falls  at  last  amid  a  giant  progeny  that  has 
grown  up  to  fill  its  place.  The  insect  race  fade 
with  the  leaf  and  die  with  the  dying  year.  Their 
span  is  brief;  but  they  have  grown  old  in  it,  have 
finished  their  work,  and  drop  into  timely  dissolu- 
tion. Thus  is  it  with  all  the  tribes  of  animated 
nature.  No  infantile  diseases  prey  upon  them ; 
no  fever  throbs  in  their  young  veins;  no  palsy 
blights  their   active   po^vcrs ;    death,   except  by 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  93 

violence,  comes  not  at  cock-crowing  or  in  the 
morning,  but  only  at  eventide.  But  for  man 
death  chooses  all  seasons.  The  cradle  is  his  ; 
and  the  first  ecstasy  of  maternal  joy  is  subdued 
into  bitter  wailing.  Childhood  and  youth  are  his  ; 
the  laughing  eye  is  quenched,  the  gleeful  shout 
hushed.  Tiie  prime  of  manhood  and  womanhood 
is  his  ;  he  blights  the  freshness  of  hope  and  prom- 
ise, and  clothes  in  the  garments  of  the  grave 
those  bound  the  most  closely  by  the  ties  of  life. 
He  often  sends  no  summons  before  him ;  but 
floats  unseen  on  the  breeze,  and  has  aimed  his 
shaft  before  his  approach  is  perceived.  The 
morning  is  full  of  happy  plans  and  bright  visions  ; 
at  nightfall  the  cry  goes  forth,  —  "Make  ready 
the  shroud,  prepare  the  pall."  In  the  midst  of 
life  we  are  in  death.  Like  the  demoniac  of  old, 
•we  have  our  dwelling  among  the  tombs.  Hardly 
is  there  a  spot  or  an  object  which  the.  shadow  of 
the  grave  has  not  hallowed  to  the  memory  of  the 
deeply  loved  and  early  lost.  Premature  and  sud- 
den dissolution  has  its  voices  for  the  living.  To 
some  of  them  let  us  now  give  heed. 

Such  instances  of  death  are  a  proof  and  a 
pledge  of  man's  immortality,  and  are  adapted  to 
make  us  feel  this  truth,  as  well  as  believe  it. 
Here  is  a  child,  budding  with  golden  promise, 
the  mind  just  awakened  to  self-consciousness,  the 
heart  twining  its  young  affections  around  all  that 
is  fair  and  good,  native  innocence  just  ripening 


94 


SUDDEN  DEATH. 


into  a  virtue  of  choice  and  effort.  Suddenly  the 
decree  goes  forth,  —  "Cut  it  down."  A  wind 
passes  over  it,  and  it  is  gone.  But  why  ?  It 
cumbered  not  the  ground.  It  blessed  the  soil 
where  it  grew,  and  has  left  a  balmy  fragrance 
where  it  fell.  Can  it  have  become  extinct,  while 
so  many  clodlike  existences,  inane  as  the  earth 
they  tread,  are  suffered  to  live  on  ?  0,  no  !  Its 
root  cannot  have  withered,  though  its  stem  is 
crushed.  It  has  only  been  transplanted,  where 
softer  zephyrs,  warmer  suns,  richer  dews,  shall 
make  its  bloom  perennial. 

Here,  again,  is  a  man  of  ripe  mind  and  noble 
heart.  He  fills  a  large  and  honored  place  in  the 
public  eye.  Science,  humanity,  and  piety  all  re- 
joice in  his  light.  Weighty  interests  are  confided 
to  him,  and  momentous  cares  rolled  upon  him. 
It  is  high  noon  with  him  in  his  path  of  progress 
and  of  usefulness.  But  his  sun  is  darkened  at 
noonday,  and  he  "  goes  to  the  grave  in  all  his 
glorious  prime,"  while  charity  weeps  and  the 
ways  of  Zion  mourn.  Yet,  is  he  dead  ?  Can  the 
caprice  of  powers  above  have  extinguished  such 
a  burning  and  shining  light,  while  the  smoking 
flax  still  glimmers,  and  the  feeble  lamp  of  age 
still  trims  its  flickering  blaze  ?  We  cannot  thus 
believe.  A  new  star  in  the  firmament  above  was 
needed,  and  that  which  glowed  with  the  purest 
lustre  here  was  transferred  to  the  galaxy  around 
the  throne  of  the  Eternal. 


SUDDEN  DEATH.  95 

Once  more,  here  is  a  woman  of  pure  mind  and 
chastened  affections,  rich  in  good  works,  the  or- 
nament of  her  household,  the  staff  and  stay  of 
her  parents,  the  tenderly  loved  of  many  hearts, 
with  new  scenes  of  happiness  and  spheres  of  du- 
ty just  opening  before  her,  and  the  fondest  hopes 
just  glimmering  and  dawning.  At  the  very  mo- 
ment when  life  offers  the  most  for  her  to  do  and 
to  enjoy,  the  arrow  is  sped,  and  she  lies  silent  in 
unwarned  dissolution.  But  can  so  much  loveli- 
ness have  died  ?  Can  God  have  suffered  a  spirit 
so  full  of  blessed  influences,  so  radiant  with  in- 
telligence and  kindness,  to  drop  out  of  being, 
while  he  burdens  the  earth  with  so  many  of  the 
selfish  and  depraved,  who  have  lived  unhonored, 
and  might  have  died  unwept  ?  This  cannot  be. 
There  was  a  vacant  mission  of  love  in  heaven, 
waiting  her  acceptance.  She  was  found  faithful 
in  a  lower  sphere,  and  her  Master  has  said  to  her, 
"  Friend,  go  up  higher.'* 

Thus  only  can  we  interpret  these  sudden  and 
premature  removals  of  the  pure  and  good.  With- 
out a  higher  life,  man  is  the  greatest  anomaly  in 
existence,  —  the  only  broken  column  in  creation. 
Everything  else  lives  its  span,  and  does  its  work. 
But  man  "  cometh  forth  as  a  flower  and  is  cut 
down ;  he  fleeth  as  a  shadow,  and  continuetli 
not."  With  him  everything  is  incomplete  and 
unfinished.  A  human  life  that  seems  entire  in 
itself,  reaches  a  natural  period,  and  comes  to  the 


96  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

grave  in  full  ago,  like  a  shock  of  corn  in  its  sea- 
son, is  the  rare  exception,  not  the  rule.  And  as 
God,  having  endowed  man  more  highly  than  the 
rest  of  his  creatures,  cannot  love  him  less,  the 
mere  light  of  nature  might  prompt  the  belief  in  a 
higher  state  of  being,  where  this  seeming  incom- 
pleteness Avill  be  filled  up,  where  defeated  aims, 
broken  plans,  and  unfinished  works  may  all  be 
consummated.  Everything  else  we  can  compre- 
hend in  the  cycle  bounded  by  earth  and  time. 
If  man  comes  not  within  that  cycle,  it  must  be 
because  his  interests  and  fortunes  belong  to  the 
larger  cycle  of  eternity.  It  is  this  only  that 
brings  man  into  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  cre- 
ation, and  makes  his  being  anything  else  than 
an  insolvable  enigma. 

I  next  remark,  that  sudden  and  premature 
deaths  among  the  innocent  and  holy  are  precious, 
as  giving  us  a  nearer  view  of  heaven  than  we  can 
otherwise  gain.  When  the  chariot  and  horses  of 
fire  bore  Elijah  to  paradise,  think  you  not  that  it 
brought  the  home  of  the  blessed  very  close  to  the 
mental  vision  of  those  who  saw  him  go  ?  One 
who  had  just  walked  with  them  in  the  beauty 
of  holiness,  and  spoken  to  them  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord,  whose  wise  and  pious  counsels  were  yet 
recent  in  their  ears,  the  impress  of  whose  energy 
and  love  was  still  fresh  upon  their  hearts,  had 
passed  from  them  to  heaven,  and  they  could  fol- 
low him  thither,  behold  him  the  same  there  as 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  97 

licrc,  and  feci  tliat  the  traits  of  character  which 
had  so  closely  bound  them  to  liim  were  congenial 
with  tlie  world  which  he  had  entered.  Similar 
is  our  feeling,  when  our  worthy  friends  are  sud- 
denly translated  from  our  homes.  The  sky  re- 
mains parted  ;  we  trace  their  passage  ;  we  follow 
them  within  the  veil ;  and,  through  the  vivid  im- 
pressions which  they  haA^e  left  us  of  their  charac- 
ters, we  seem  to  see  them  still,  the  same  in  all 
that  was  good,  entering  upon  the  joys  of  paradise, 
sweeping  the  harps  of  heaven.  It  is  as  if  a  gem 
of  unearthly  radiance,  which  had  shone  in  our 
dwellings,  which  we  had  handled  and  sported  in 
the  sunlight,  and  gazed  at  in  all  its  rainbow  tints, 
had  been  snatched  from  our  grasp,  planted  in  the 
sky,  and  made  a  star.  Impressions  of  this  kind 
cannot  be  so  strong,  where  long  decay  or  infirm- 
ity has  preceded  death,  so  as  to  suspend  the  ac- 
tive energies  of  the  soul,  and  to  give  scope  only 
for  the  passive  virtues.  In  such  cases,  our  last 
converse  has  been  with  but  a  part  of  what  our 
friend  was,  Avitli  an  intensely  interesting  part  in- 
deed, with  faith,  patience,  and  submission ;  but 
still  there  has  been  a  change,  —  the  remembran- 
ces of  health  have  become  clouded,  —  sad  associ- 
ations of  groans,  weakness,  and  ghastly  disease 
have  clustered  around  the  loved  form,  so  that  we 
are  but  dimly  conscious  that  it  is  the  bright,  en- 
ergetic, happy  being  of  former  days,  that  has 
entered  into  rest.     Even  our  contemplations  of 

9 


98  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

heaven  take  a  sombre  hue,  when  we  have  been 
for  weeks  and  months  conversant  with  the  gloom 
and  suffering  of  its  antechamber.  But  when 
death  comes  ere  the  eye  is  waxed  dim  or  the  nat- 
ural force  abated,  when  our  friend  is  removed  in 
the  prime  of  energy  and  fervor,  our  last  remem- 
brances of  the  departed  are  of  all  that  our  friend 
was,  and  whatever  there  was  in  him  of  rare,  and 
various,  and  well-developed  moral  strength  and 
beauty  remains  in  our  minds  as  an  abiding  me- 
morial of  the  spirit  and  the  life  of  heaven. 

Yet  once  more,  the  sudden,  and  what  we  call 
the  untimely,  death  of  those  who  are  prepared  to 
die,  may  be  regarded  as  a  relief  and  blessing  to 
them.  To  survivors  it  is,  indeed,  unspeakably 
appalling.  The  contrast,  the  revulsion  of  feeling, 
the  instantaneous  prostration  of  plans  and  scat- 
tering of  hopes,  the  blight  which  it  seems  to  cast 
on  every  familiar  scene  and  object,  all  conspire 
to  aggravate  the  severity  of  the  stroke.  But 
from  how  many  conflicts  and  sorrows  has  tlie  de- 
parted one  been  saved !  He  has  not  seen  earthly 
objects  fade  one  by  one  from  his  sickening  gaze. 
His  heart  has  not  bled  anew  each  day  in  the  sun- 
dering of  cherished  ties.  He  has  not  known  the 
bitterness  of  death.  He  has  been  spared  the  last 
adieus,  the  parting  throes,  the  siglit  of  agonized 
friends  about  his  bedside,  the  anxieties  for  those 
to  be  left,  which  intrude  themselves  on  the  soul 
the  best  prepared  to  die.     Perhaps,  too,  though 


SUDDEN   DEATH.  99 

he  dreaded  not  the  world  to  come,  he  shrank 
from  the  passage  to  it,  feared  the  moment  of  dis- 
sohition,  and  felt,  that,  with  all  the  joys  of  heaven 
in  full  prospect,  the  pains  of  death  wonld  still  fill 
him  Avith  terror.  But  from  this  trial  of  his  faith 
he  has  been  exempted.  The  battle  was  fought, 
and  the  victory  won,  without  his  consciousness. 
He  knew  not  that  he  was  dying,  till  he  found 
himself  alive  from  the  dead.  His  Master  came 
at  an  hour  when  he  thought  not ;  but  found  him 
watching,  his  lamp  trimmed,  his  "  feet  shod  with 
the  preparation  of  the  gospel  of  peace."  And 
happy  was  that  servant  to  have  been  borne,  as  on 
angels'  wings,  across  those  turbid  waves  which 
§0  many  of  the  righteous  must  ford  with  fear  and 
trembling. 

I  cannot  sympathize  with  the  dread  of  sudden 
death,  as  such,  which  many  feel.  Only  give  me 
the  full  assurance  that  I  am  prepared  to  meet  my 
God,  that  I  am  leading  a  Clnnstian  life,  that  my 
prevalent  frame  of  mind  is  spiritual  and  heavenly, 
and  I  would  even  pray  to  be  spared  the  slow  de- 
cay of  nature  or  disease,  the  sad  farewell,  the 
parting  conflict,  —  I  would  beg  of  my  Master  to 
let  me  work  in  his  vineyard  till  the  very  last  mo- 
ment, and  close  my  life  with  my  labors.  But 
such  wishes,  so  far  as  we  cherish  them,  let  us 
breathe  with  submission,  and  with  the  willing- 
ness, if  such  be  Heaven's  decree,  to  glorify  God 
in  the  pains  of  a  last   illness  and  a  lingering 


100  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

death  ;  for  the  cause  of  piety  needs  such  suffering 
witnesses,  and  fur  tlic  service  whicli  some  must 
render  all  should  hold  themselves  in  readiness. 
If  the  chariot  of  hrc  comes  for  us,  we  will  deem 
it  a  blessed  privilege  thus  to  go  ;  but  if  it  be  our 
lot  to  tread  the  dark  valley  with  slow  and  painful 
steps,  "  oven  so,  Father,  for  so  it  seems  good  in 
thy  sight."     And  when, 

"  Cast  as  a  broken  vessel  by, 
Thy  will  we  can  no  longer  do, 
Yet,  while  a  dally  death  we  die, 
Thy  power  we  will  in  weakness  show, 
Our  sufferings  shall  thy  gloiy  raise, 
Our  speechless  woe  proclaim  thy  praise." 

Lut,  my  friends,  what  means  this  almost  uni- 
versal shrinking  from  sudden  death,  as  if  the  very 
words  were  a  fearful  talisman,  synonymous  with 
all  tliat  is  terrific  and  nothing  that  is  bright  and 
happy  in  the  world  to  come  ?  It  is  because  we 
are  so  ill  prepared  for  death.  When  the  thought 
of  removal  Avithout  warning  presents  itself,  our 
sins  stare  us  in  the  face,  and  we  cannot  read  our 
title  to  heaven  clear.  When  some  such  visita- 
tion of  Providence  takes  place  among  our  kin- 
dred or  neighljors,  the  warning  is  most  thrilliiigly 
sLMit  home  to  our  hearts,  —  "  Be  ye  also  ready.'* 
AVc  then  feel  our  liability  to  de}>art  at  any  mo- 
ment. The  ground  seems  to  quake  beneath  us. 
We  own  that  we  have  here  no  continuing  city, 
and  resolve  to  seek  that  city  which  hath  founda- 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  101 

tions.  But  with  the  terror,  the  resolution  fades 
away,  and  very  soon  we  are  again  living  on  as 
if  the  voice  of  Providence  had  not  arrested  us,  — 
just  as  the  frightened  bird  returns,  the  moment 
after,  to  tlie  covert  from  which  the  fowler's  step 
had  startled  her.  But  we  are  always  in  peril, 
and  the  most  so  when  we  are  farthest  from  the 
thought  of  danger ;  for  the  longer  it  is  since  the 
last  event  of  the  kind,  the  nearer  at  hand  must 
the  next  be.  Our  daily  path  is  by  hidden  pitfalls 
and  lurking  deaths.  The  puncture  of  a  pin,  the 
sting  of  an  insect,  a  slight  misstep,  a  flash  from 
a  storm-cloud,  may  send  us  at  once  from  our 
bloom  and  prime  to  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ. 
A  sudden  hemorrhage,  from  the  very  excess  of 
health,  or  from  some  wanton  feat  of  strength, 
may  shed  life's  current  from  its  broken  bowl, 
when  our  mountain  stands  the  firmest.  Or  soon 
insidious  disease  may  prey  secretly  upon  the  seat 
of  life,  and  we  suspect  it  not  till  our  hearts  have 
throbbed  their  last  pulse.  There  is  not  one  of 
you  who  cou.ld  pronounce  himself  less  likely  to 
die  before  nightfall,  than  could  thousands  whom 
the  morning  has  beheld  full  of  vigor,  and  the 
evening  in  their  shrouds.  And  are  we  ready  ? 
The  decree  may  have  gone  forth  concerning  some 
one  of  us.  Who  knows  bvit  tliat  preacher  or 
hearer  may  make  his  next  appeal  in  the  silent 
eloquence  of  death  ?  I  say  these  things  not  by 
way  of  rhetorical  exaggeration,  but  because  I 
9* 


102  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

foci  them.  'W[\Gn  I  reflect  on  the  many  causes 
of  death  latent  within  nie  and  around  me,  on  tlie 
many  avenues  by  whicli  the  breath  of  life  may 
at  any  moment  be  expelled,  on  the  frailty  of 
every  part  of  this  complex  frame,  on  its  thou- 
sand strings,  not  one  of  which  can  be  broken 
without  the  harp's  becoming  a  tuneless  ruin, 
on  the  numberless  conditions  which  must  all  be 
fulfdled  in  order  to  keep  the  springs  of  being  in 
motion  for  a  single  moment,  I  seem  a  wonder  to 
myself,  life  becomes  the  mystery  of  mysteries, 
and  God's  guardian  care  an  incessant  miracle. 
AVhen  I  think  of  these  things,  so  far  from  being 
surprised  at  an  occasional  instance  of  sudden  dis- 
solution, I  marvel  that  it  should  occur  so  seldom. 
But  I  would  not  hold  fortli  this  event  as  the 
object  of  blind  terror.  I  would  rather  urge  you 
to  that  constant  preparation  of  spirit,  without 
which  the  slowest  dissolution  will  seem  too  soon, 
witli  wliich  death  cannot  come  too  soon  or  too 
suddenly. 

Let  me,  then,  urge  you  to  live  prepared  for 
the  sudden  sundering  of  domestic  and  social  ties. 
Unreconciled  enmities,  open  wounds,  unquenched 
anger,  arm  doatli  witli  a  sting  of  tenfold  sliarp- 
iicss.  Tlicy  luive  often  cost  bitter  weephig  for 
years  over  the  graves  of  the  injured.  Is  one 
who  was  the  subject  of  other  than  kind  senti- 
ments called  away  from  our  circle  ?  However 
ready   we   were    in  his  lifcti.me  to  cast  all  the 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  103 

blame  upon  him,  dccatli  will  soften  his  faults 
and  licightcn  his  virtues  to  our  view,  so  that 
we  shall  feel  ourselves  alone  guilty  ;  and  love, 
reviving  over  the  lifeless  dust,  will  vent  itself 
in  vain  longings  to  grasp  the  shadowy  spirit  in 
our  reconciling  embrace,  to  ask  forgiveness  of  the 
car  for  ever  sealed,  to  call  forth  the  once  wont- 
ed glow  of  affection  on  the  cheek  for  ever  pale. 
And  if  we  ourselves  go  hence  with  such  wounds 
unhealed,  must  they  not  rankle  in  our  disem- 
bodied spirits,  cloud  the  light  of  eternity  as  it 
dawns  upon  us,  embitter  the  streams  of  para- 
dise as  they  roll  by  us  ?  But  "  we  know  nei- 
tlier  the  day  nor  the  hour  when  the  Son  of  Man 
Cometh."  Our  earthly  household  may  be  dis- 
solved at  any  moment ;  and  when  we  think 
the  least  of  it,  the  parting  hour  may  be  near. 
With  what  a  solemn  emphasis,  then,  should  the 
counsel  be  sent  home  to  our  souls,  —  "  Let  not 
the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath  "  !  How  care- 
ful should  we  be  to  keep  the  unity  of  the  spirit 
inviolate,  the  bond  of  peace  unbroken,  lest  the 
gall  of  bitterness  be  instilled  into  some  early 
cup  of  sorrow  !  Let  us  so  walk  together,  in 
our  smaller  and  larger  circles  of  kindred  and 
intimacy,  that  no  remembrances  of  broken  faith 
or  wounded  love  may  haunt  us  at  some  future 
grave-side,  or  in  the  spiritual  home  to  which 
we  may  soon  be  called.  Let  us  go  to  our  rest 
each  night  in  peace  with  all  men ;  for  we  never 


lUJ:  SUDDEX  DEATH. 

know,  when  wc  lie  down,  but  that  it  is  on  our 
death-bed,  or,  wlicn  we  rise  up,  but  that  it  may 
be  to  the  scene  or  tidings  of  another's  unwarned 
doom. 

Above  all,  let  us  keep  our  hearts  at  peace  with 
that  God  in  whose  unveiled  presence  we  may  at 
any  moment  find  ourselves,  —  with  that  Redeem- 
er at  whose  judgment-bar  the  great  account  of 
life  may  be  so  speedily  demanded.  We  are  too 
prone  to  think  of  sudden  death  as  if  it  were 
dropping  into  a  frightful  abyss.  To  the  recon- 
ciled and  prepared  spirit,  to  the  experienced  and 
mature  Christian,  it  is  falling  from  the  cradle 
of  its  infant  being  into  everlasting  arms  of  love 
beneath.  But  are  we  ready  ?  We  know  not 
the  day  or  the  hour ;  but,  come  when  it  may, 
will  it  find  us  waiting  ?  Is  there  one  of  us  who 
could  receive,  without  a  shudder,  a  final  sum- 
mons so  sudden  as  has  often  been  sent  to  those 
around  us  ?  I  trust  that  there  may  be  some 
of  us  over  whom  surviving  friends  would  feel 
no  fear,  and  whom  God  and  Jesus  Avould  own 
and  welcome.  But  is  our  every  day  spent  as 
we  could  wish,  were  it  to  be  our  last  ?  This 
ought  to  be  our  standard,  tliis  our  rule  of  life. 
Not  that  we  sliould  l)e  of  a  sad  countenance, 
or  wear  a  funereal  aspect ;  for  to  live  thus  takes 
from  deatli  all  its  sadness  and  its  bitterness. 
But  every  day  should  be  marked  by  as  earnest 
diligence  in  duty,  as  fervent  a  spirit  of  devotion, 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  105 

as  careful  a  heed  to  the  dictates  of  conscience, 
as  faithful  a  walk  in  the  Redeemer's  footsteps, 
as  if  on  that  one  day  were  suspended  all  our 
interests  for  eternity.  Happy  is  that  servant 
whom  his  Lord,  when  he  cometh,  shall  find 
thus  living. 

But  am  I  wrong  in  saying  that  some  of  you 
live  with  no  more  reference  to  death  and  eter- 
nity than  if  you  had  a  lease  of  life  at  pleas- 
ure ?  Every  other  contingent  event  you  fore- 
see, and  provide  for.  Disasters  in  husiness,  fire, 
fraud,  and  shipwreck,  are  the  subjects  of  your 
most  diligent  precaution.  You  ground  plans, 
hopes,  and  fears  on  the  death  of  others.  All 
but  yourselves  seem  mortal  to  you.  But  you 
are  strong  and  well.  You  are  not  constitution- 
ally liable  to  acute  disorders.  Sudden  death, 
while  it  has  laid  low  your  neighbors,  has  not 
actually  entered  your  own  doors.  You  are  ex- 
empts. The  destroyer  may  rage  around  you, 
but  you  feel  that  he  cannot  cross  your  thresh- 
old. 0,  let  multiplied  warnings  arouse  you 
from  your  fatal  security,  your  apathy  at  death's 
door,  your  slumber  among  the  tombs !  The 
sands  are  fast  running.  The  days  of  privibge 
are  drawing  to  a  close.  With  some  of  you,  this 
may  be  the  last ;  would  to  God  that  it  might 
be  an  effectual  appeal,  bidding  you,  in  the  words 
of  holy  writ,  —  "  Turn  ye,  turn  ye  ;  for  why  will 
ye  die  ? '' 


106  SUDDEN    DEATH. 

Let  US  not  dismiss  these  contemplations  with- 
out lifting  our  hearts  in  gratitude  for  that  hope 
of  immortality  which  gilds  the  shadow  of  death 
and  the  caverns  of  the  grave.  Do  we  mourn 
over  virtuous  friends,  suddenly  snatched  from 
the  large  and  cherished  place  which  they  filled 
in  our  affections  ?  Glory  be  to  Jesus,  that  we 
mourn  not  without  hope !  Our  homes  are  made 
desolate  ;  but  the  grave  is  desolate  also.  It  im- 
prisons not  the  beloved  who  have  parted  from  us. 
We  go  thither  to  weep,  and  the  angel  of  the  res- 
urrection meets  us ;  the  voice  steals  over  us,  — 
"  They  are  not  here,  they  are  risen."  Death  is 
swallowed  up  in  victory.  They  die  no  more,  but 
are  as  the  angels  of  God.  The  Lamb,  who  is  in 
the  midst  of  the  throne,  shall  feed  them,  and 
shall  lead  them  unto  living  fountains  of  waters, 
and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes.  A  veil,  indeed,  must  hang  for  a  while 
between  them  and  us.  They  and  we  must,  for 
a  season,  pursue  separate  paths  of  duty,  in  sepa- 
rate mansions  of  our  Father's  house,  —  yet  not 
divided.  It  is  still  one  house  and  one  family. 
Yet  our  faith  is  weak.  We  think  too  much  of 
tlio  dark  coffin  and  the  lonely  grave,  with  which 
the  departed  have  far  less  connection  than  our- 
selves. But  could  we  lift  our  thoughts  to  tlio 
abode  of  their  glory,  could  we  catch  the  hymn-, 
note  of  tlieir  joy,  could  we  get  a  momentary 
grnn])se  of  their  Ijlissful  state,  it  Avould  arm  us 


SUDDEN    DEATH.  107 

with  fortitude  to  bear  our  loss,  fill  us  witli  thank- 
fulness for  their  unspeakable  gain,  and  urge  us 
ever  onward  and  upward  with  unfaltering  steps 
in  the  path  which  they  trod  before  us.  God 
grant  to  the  deeply  afflicted  among  us,  that  faith 
and  patience  may  have  their  perfect  work,  that 
they  may  come  forth  as  fine  gold  from  the  fur- 
nace, and  may  be  found  among  those  who  through 
much  tribulation  have  entered  into  the  kingdom 
of  God ! 


SERMON    IX. 


THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

WE  HAVE  NOT  FOLLOWED  CUNNINGLY  DEVISED  FABLES,  WHEN 
WE  MADE  KNOWN  UNTO  YOU  THE  POWER  AND  COMING  OF 
OUR  LORD  JESUS  CHRIST,  BUT  WERE  EYEWITNESSES  OP 
HIS  MAJESTY.  FOR  HE  RECEIVED  FROM  GOD  THE  FATHER 
HONOR  AND  GLORY,  WHEN  THERE  CAME  SUCH  A  VOICE  TO 
HIM  FROM  THE  EXCELLENT  GLORY,  THIS  IS  MY  BELOVED 
SON,  IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED.  AND  THIS  VOICE 
WHICH  CAME  FROM  HEAVEN  WE  HEARD,  WHEN  WE  WERE 
WITH  HIM  IN  THE  HOLY  MOUNT.  —  2  Pcter  i.  16-  18. 

My  subject  is  our  Lord's  transfiguration.  We 
know  not  the  scene  of  this  miracle.  Monkish 
tradition  has  assigned  it  to  Mount  Tabor,  but 
Avithout  any  good  ground.  It  probably  occurred 
on  one  of  the  mountains  north  of  the  Sea  of  Gal- 
ilee, in  the  region  of  Caesarea  Philippi.  It  was 
on  the  Sabbath,  less  than  two  weeks  before  our 
Saviour's  death.  It  was  his  uniform  custom, 
wlien  he  passed  tlie  Sabbath  in  any  city  or  vil- 
lage, to  attend  the  service  of  the  synagogue  ;  but 
now,  in  tlie  wilderness,  he  leads  his  three  most 
intiinate  conijianions  up  into  a  secluded  place  of 


THE    TRANSFIGURATION.  109 

worship,  probably  in  the  evening,  when,  by  Jew- 
ish reckoning,  the  day  of  rest  began.  He  spends 
the  liours  in  prayer.  Meanwhile  the  weary  dis- 
ciples fall  asleep.  And  while  they  sleep,  a  glori- 
ous change  passes  over  the  form  and  features  of 
their  Master.  A  supernatural  brightness  shines 
from  his  face.  His  garments  become  a  robe  of 
light.  There  appear  in  familiar  converse  with 
him  Moses  and  Elijah,  the  founder,  the  restorer, 
of  the  Jewish  faith,  the  two  great  men  of  the 
ancient  dispensation,  —  the  one  august  and  ven- 
erable as  a  leader  and  lawgiver,  the  other  the 
loftiest  of  those  sublime  old  seers  who  had  thun- 
dered the  decrees  of  Heaven  into  the  ears  of  an 
apostate  and  rebellious  nation.  They  talk  with 
Jesus  of  his  approaching  sufferings  and  death. 
The  apostles  awake,  and  listen  with  amazement 
and  intense  interest  to  their  communings.  They 
are  reluctant  to  quit  this  heavenly  society  for 
the  dusty  world  beneath.  On  this  lofty,  secluded 
mountain  they  would  have  their  Master  hold  his 
court.  "  It  is  good  to  be  here,"  cries  the  ardent, 
impulsive  Peter ;  —  "  let  us,  then,  pitch  three  tents 
for  our  Master  and  his  illustrious  guests,  and  let 
us  sit  at  their  feet  and  hear  their  words."  But 
while  they  speak,  the  heavenly  visitors  vanish 
in  a  luminous  cloud,  and  from  the  cloud  comes 
the  voice  of  the  Eternal,  —  "This  is  my  beloved 
Son  ;  hear  ye  him." 

We  may  trace,  I  think,  with  distinctness,  two 

10 


110  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

express  purposes  which  the  transfiguration  was 
designed  and  adapted  to  serve. 

1.  It  installed  our  Saviour  in  his  true  place 
and  glory  in  the  eyes  of  these  three  chief  apos- 
tles. They  had  begun  to  look  upon  him  as  the 
promised  Messiah ;  but  their  conceptions  of  the 
Messiah  were  as  yet  low  and  narrow.  They 
thouglit  of  him  merely  as  a  powerful  Jewish 
king,  who  should  mount  the  throne  of  David, 
govern  by  the  law  of  Moses,  keep  alive  the  daily 
sacrifice,  restore  the  decayed  majesty  of  the  ritual 
worship,  and  bring  all  the  kindreds  of  the  earth 
to  bow  with  offerings  and  hosannas  at  the  temple 
in  Jerusalem.  Thus  was  the  Messiah  in  their 
gross  conceptions  subordinated  to  the  law  and 
the  prophets  ;  and  his  instructions  w^ere  not  to 
constitute  a  new  religion,  but  merely  to  be  en- 
grafted on  the  old  stock  of  Judaism.  With  these 
notions,  they  were  ill  prepared  to  receive  from 
him  any  teachings  which  looked  far  beyond  the 
creed  of  their  fathers,  and  would  have  regarded 
with  utter  scepticism  anything  that  might  come 
in  conflict  with  the  perpetual  obligations  of  the 
Levitical  law.  But  the  scene  now  before  them 
is  ada]:)ted  to  enlarge  their  views  of  their  Mas- 
ter's mission  and  oOice.  He  is  the  chief  person- 
age ;  and  the  great  lawgiver,  the  mighty  prophet, 
appear  but  as  ministering  spirits  to  him,  passing- 
over  to  liim  their  insignia  of  authority,  resign- 
ing to  him  their  su])remacy  over  God's  people. 


THE   TRANSFIGURATION.  Ill 

They  stay  not  with  the  awe-stricken  disciples ; 
for  tlieir  commission  has  expired.  They  had  pre- 
pared his  way,  liad  heralded  his  coming ;  and 
now  they  vanish  from  his  glorified  presence, 
as  stars  fade  before  the  sun.  They  were  the 
servants,  faithful  in  their  day  and  for  their 
work  ;  but  of  him  comes  the  voice,  —  "  This 
is  my  beloved  Son  ;  hear  ye  him."  The  apos- 
tles thus  saw  the  three  in  their  true  places  and 
relations,  and  were  prepared  to  receive  the  new 
religion  as  an  independent  revelation,  and  to 
regard  their  Master  as  a  teacher  who,  so  far 
from  borroAving  light  from  those  that  went  be- 
fore him,  reflected  back  light  upon  them,  mak- 
ing it  their  highest  glory  that  they  foresaw  and 
foretold  the  day  of  his  appearing. 

This  lesson  of  the  transfiguration  many  Chris- 
tians need.  There  is,  there  always  has  been,  in 
the  Church  of  Christ  a  great  deal  of  Judaism,  — 
a  clinging  to  what  is  worn  out,  outgrown,  and 
done  away,  —  a  preference  for  that  which  is  in 
part  over  that  which  is  perfect.  Many  stop  at 
Moses,  instead  of  going  on  to  Christ.  There 
are  prevalent  in  many  parts  of  the  Church  un- 
christian notions  of  doctrine  and  duty,  derived 
from  the  Old  Testament,  which  represent  a  cer- 
tain stage  of  progress  from  darkness  to  light, 
but  fall  short  of  the  revelation  made  in  the 
Gospel.  Tlius  there  are  certain  harsh,  stern 
views   of  the   Divine    character   entertained   by 


112  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

many,  which  havo  no  support  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment, nor  yet  any  in  the  Old,  properly  under- 
stood, but  which  mark  the  point  of  attahiment 
reached  by  the  covenant  people  in  passing  from 
polytheism  and  idolatry  towards  the  sublime  con- 
ception of  God  as  a  Father,  which  first  had  its 
full  dcveloi)ment  in  the  words  of  Jesus.  Thus, 
also,  many  Christians  deem  the  retaliation  of  in- 
jury, even  to  blood  for  blood,  a  Christian  duty, 
because  it  was  enjoined  by  Moses ;  whereas  un- 
der him  the  enactment  of  literal  retaliation,  and 
nothing  more,  was  but  a  stage  in  the  human- 
izing process  by  which  men  were  gradually  re- 
claimed from  the  practice  of  reckless  and  un- 
measured vengeance,  and  prepared  for  Christ's 
law  of  perfect  love  and  prompt  forgiveness.  Let 
me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  cherish  a  faith 
which  has  no  room  to  grow  stronger  in  the  di- 
vine origin  of  the  Old  Testament  revelation  and 
religion.  But  it  was  not  the  whole  truth,  —  not 
absolute  truth ;  else  there  had  been  no  need  of 
a  more  perfect  law.  It  was  truth  with  reference 
to  the  sins  which  it  rebuked  and  the  errors  which 
it  dispelled  ;  but  on  every  point  it  left  undis- 
closed much  that  is  essential  to  the  perfect  cul- 
ture of  the  race.  On  every  point  Christ  reveals 
more,  and  goes  farther,  than  Moses.  And  Christ 
is  our  law  and  our  authority.  Tlie  law  and  the 
prophets  are  but  steps  to  his  throne.  On  his  face 
rests  the  brightness  of  heaven  ;  his  are  the  robes 


THE    TRANSFIGURATION.  113 

of  liglit ;  and  Moses  and  Elijah  shine  only  in  the 
rays  that  go  forth  from  his  countenance.  In  our 
theology  let  us  not,  then,  build  the  three  taberna- 
cles, but  one  holy  of  holies  to  the  great  high- 
priest  who  has  passed  into  the  heavens ;  for  in 
him  all  preceding  dispensations  have  their  com- 
pletion and  fulfilment. 

2.  The  second  great  purpose  of  our  Saviour's 
transfiguration  had  reference  to  himself.  It  was 
one  of  the  agencies  employed  by  God  for  the  de- 
velopment of  his  moral  perfection,  of  his  power 
of  effort  and  endurance.  That  Jesus,  though  he 
knew  no  sin,  was  yet  gradually  fitted  and  perfect- 
ed for  his  arduous  and  world-embracing  mission, 
for  the  agony  of  his  cross  and  the  triumph  of  his 
death,  the  testimony  of  Scripture  leaves  iis  no 
room  to  doubt.  St.  Luke  speaks  of  his  growing 
in  wisdom,  and  in  favor  with  God  and  man. 
The  writer  to  the  Hebrews  says,  —  "It  became 
him,  for  whom  are  all  things,  and  by  whom  are 
all  things,  in  bringing  many  sons  into  glory, 
to  make  the  Captain  of  their  salvation  perfect 
through  sufferings."  And  again,  —  "  Though  he 
were  a  Son,  yet  learned  he  obedience  by  the  things 
which  he  suffered,  and,  being  made  perfect,  ho 
became  the  author  of  eternal  salvation  unto  all 
them  that  obey  him."  That  he  felt  the  need 
and  experienced  the  power  of  aid  from  heaven 
would  appear  from  the  frequency  of  his  seasons 
of  prolonged  supplication  to  God,  and  from  the 

10* 


114  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

instances  in  which,  at  striking  emergencies  of  his 
life,  there  were  special  interpositions  for  his  sui> 
port  and  relief. 

Our  Saviour  was  now  going  to  die.  His  war- 
fare Avas  well-nigh  accomplished.  There  w^as 
everything  before  him  to  fill  the  prospect  with 
anguish  and  dread.  Physical  torture  and  suffer- 
ing were  to  form  but  a  small  part  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  cup.  His  bosom  friends  were  to  be 
left  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd  in  the  season  of 
their  greatest  helplessness  and  need.  Those 
whom  he  had  invited,  warned,  and  cherished, 
those  whose  sick  he  had  healed,  whose  dead  he 
had  raised,  whose  maniacs  he  had  restored,  were 
to  be  his  accusers  and  his  murderers.  He  was 
to  pass  from  among  the  living  under  circumstan- 
ces the  most  revolting  to  that  deep  moral  sen- 
sibility, to  those  sentiments  of  i^iety  and  love, 
which  his  exalted  character  and  mission  can  have 
rendered  only  the  more  intense  and  delicate. 
By  every  vile  form  of  impiety  and  blasphemy 
was  his  pure  spirit  to  be  kept  in  protracted  tor- 
ture. 

The  scene  now  under  consideration  was  one 
of  the  instrumentalities  ordained  to  strengthen 
our  Saviour  for  conflict  and  for  agony.  Those 
wli(^  liad  overcome  were  sent  to  minister  to  him 
who  was  to  suffer.  They  spake  of  his  approach- 
ing death.  They,  too,  had  been  sufferers ;  and 
their  deepest  griefs  aiid  injuries  had  been  of  the 


THE    TRANSFIGURATION.  115 

same  typo  with  his.  Men  nerved  to  exposure 
and  hardship,  full  of  vigor  and  intrepidity,  they 
had  made  slight  account  of  their  outward  priva- 
tions and  sufferings,  nor  do  we  hear  from  them  a 
word  of  complaint  as  to  toil,  or  wandering,  or 
want.  Moses  led  his  people  in  the  desert  for 
forty  years,  and  that  in  extreme  old  age ;  yet 
"  his  eye  was  not  dim,  nor  his  natural  force  abat- 
ed." But  he  mourned,  in  the  deepest  prostra- 
tion of  spirit,  for  the  ingratitude  and  impiety  of 
his  nation,  and  in  their  obstinacy  and  frequent 
rebellion  bore  a  daily  burden  of  care  and  grief. 
Elijah  encountered  hunger,  desolation,  persecu- 
tion. He  was  driven  from  city  to  desert,  and  from 
desert  to  mountain.  But  no  peril  daunted  him  ; 
no  opposition  quenched  his  zeal.  Yet  he,  too, 
was  filled  with  anguish  for  the  sins  of  his  people, 
and  in  the  solitude  of  the  cavern  poured  out  his 
complaint,  that  the  children  of  Israel  had  forsaken 
Jehovah's  covenant,  thrown  down  his  altars,  and 
slain  his  prophets.  How  appropriate  companions 
for  the  great  Witness  of  the  truth,  at  this  hour, 
were  these  sufferers  for  righteousness'  sake  !  Most 
fittingly  might  they  have  talked  "  of  his  decease 
which  he  should  accomplish  at  Jerusalem,"  and 
communed  with  him  of  the  unfailing  triumph  of 
truth  and  the  sure  victory  of  virtue,  —  of  the 
sympathy  of  all  heaven  with  sacrifices  and  sor- 
rows incurred  from  love  for  the  children  of  God. 
Not  of  death  in  its  dreariness  and  dread  did  they 


116  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

talk,  but  of  death  met  with  faith  and  submission, 
made  cahn  and  happy  by  the  breath  of  prayer, 
lost  in  victory  by  the  near  view  of  the  crown  of 
life  that  fadeth  not  away.  In  this  heavenly  pres- 
ence, the  Saviour,  clothed  in  light,  received  the 
earnest  of  the  reward  that  awaited  him  as  death's 
conqueror  and  man's  Redeemer.  It  was  for  him 
a  scene  full  of  refreshment,  solace,  and  strength. 
It  blended  rays  of  heavenly  glory  with  the  dark- 
est scenes  of  earth,  the  sympathy  of  pure  and  ex- 
alted spirits  with  the  contempt  and  contumely  of 
the  low  and  vile,  visions  of  triumph  with  impend- 
ing torture  and  agony,  the  light  of  immortal  life 
with  the  overhanging  darkness  of  the  grave.  The 
heavenly  forms,  the  voice  of  attestation,  gave  our 
Saviour's  mission  thus  far  the  seal  of  the  Divine 
acceptance,  assured  him  that  the  living  sacrifice 
of  a  weary  and  suffering  pilgrimage  had  been  well 
pleasing  to  the  Father,  and  gave  him  new  energy 
to  complete  the  offering  in  agony  and  blood. 

These  purposes  seem  to  have  been  the  chief 
ends  of  the  transfiguration.  It  may  also  suggest 
many  important  lessons  for  our  faith  and  practice. 
To  a  few  of  tliese  let  us  now  direct  our  thoughts. 

Let  me  first  ask.  In  what  did  this  miracle  con- 
sist ?  Did  it  create  a  new  state  of  tilings,  or  did 
it  simply  reveal  a  state  that  always  exists  ?  The 
latter,  as  seems  to  me.  When  angels  and  just 
men  made  perfect  a})pear  in  converse  with  our 
Saviour,  it  is  not  their  being  among  mortals,  but 


THE    TKANSFIGURATION.  117 

llicir  becoming  visible  to  the  outward  eye,  that 
constitutes  the  miracle.  Heaven,  I  believe,  is 
not  afar  off,  but  unspeakably  near,  compassing 
our  homes,  encircling  our  daily  ways.  As  all 
around  us,  on  leaves  and  in  dew-drops  on  a  sum- 
mer's day,  there  are  myriads  of  living  beings  too 
minute  for  the  bodily  eye  to  discern,  so  there  is 
no  doubt  constantly  about  us  a  cloud  of  unseen 
spirits  too  ethereal  for  our  gross  vision,  —  the 
hosts  of  God  encamp  around  our  dwellings,  — 
strains  of  celestial  praise,  such  as  hailed  the  Sav- 
iour's birth,  are  always  borne,  though  unheard, 
on  our  night  air,  — 

"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

It  was  no  rare  thing,  though  an  amazing  sight, 
when  Elisha  beheld  angelic  hosts  drawn  out  for 
his  defence.  Nor  had  the  hills  of  Judaea  grown 
unfamiliar  to  Moses  and  Elijah,  who  now  "  ap- 
peared in  glory."  The  whole  tenor  of  Scripture 
brings  the  two  worlds  together,  makes  us  feel 
that  they  are  as  one  world,  —  that  our  departed 
friends,  and  the  wise  and  holy  of  all  times,  may 
be  around  us  and  with  us.  Could  wo  feel  this 
always  as  we  do  at  some  favored  seasons,  would 
it  not  be  an  ever-present  rebuko  to  our  negli- 
gence and  sin,  an  unceasing  stimulus  to  diligence 
and  heavenly-mindedness  ?  Would  not  voices 
no  longer  heard  on  earth  be  our  unceasing  mon- 
itors of  duty,  and  re-echo  in  thrilling  tones  every 


118  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

prompting  of  conscience  and  every  precept  of  the 
Divine  word  ?  Would  not  the  venerable  dead, 
even  more  than  the  living,  be  our  teachers  and 
our  guides  ?  I  love  to  look  on  the  transfigura- 
tion, and  on  similar  scenes  in  our  Saviour's  pil- 
grimage, as  but  revelations,  manifestations  of  the 
spiritual  life,  which  in  numberless  forms  perpet- 
ually surrounds  us  ;  and  I  feel,  that,  next  to  the 
presence  of  God  and  the  love  of  Jesus,  we  can 
have  no  motive  to  duty  so  strong  as  the  assur- 
ance that  the  most  revered  and  the  best  beloved 
of  those  that  have  entered  upon  the  higher  life 
survey  with  intense  interest  the  path  of  our  pil- 
grimage, and  that  their  joy  is  enhanced  by  our 
fidelity  and  devotion. 

Again,  the  seasons  when  our  Saviour  enjoyed 
the  nearest  communion  with  heaven  deserve  our 
special  regard.  When  was  it  that  angels  and 
glorified  spirits  became  manifest  in  his  society  ? 
Not  when  tlic  multitudes  thronged  him,  and 
children  sang  hosannas  in  the  temple,  —  not 
during  his  few  and  brief  seasons  of  ease  and 
outward  success.  They  first  came  to  him  after 
his  forty  days'  temptation,  when  he  had  contend- 
ed in  lonely  prayer  with  every  allurement  which 
could  draw  him  aside  from  his  appointed  work. 
Again,  in  the  scene  now  before  us,  came  Moses 
and  Elijah.  And  of  what  talked  they  with  him  ? 
Not  of  crowns,  or  of  ai)plauding  nudtitudes,  but 
of  his    ai)proachiiig   agony  and    death.      Again, 


THE    TRANSFIGURATION.  119 

when  in  Gcthscmanc  he  wrestled  with  the  se- 
verest powers  of  evil,  and  won  the  victory  be- 
fore his  hour  had  come,  there  appeared  an  angel 
from  heaven  strengthening  him.  Are  not  these 
things  written  that  lieaven  may  seem  nearest  to 
lis  when  trials  most  abound,  in  loneliness  and 
weariness,  in  desertion  and  agony,  —  that  wo 
may  bring  the  unseen  world  into  the  clearest 
view  when  the  power  of  evil  is  the  strongest, 
and  that,  when  no  earthly  voice  gives  us  com- 
fort or  a  God  speed,  we  may  feel  that  angels  min- 
ister to  us  and  glorified  spirits  urge  us  heaven- 
ward ? 

Finally,  the  scene  of  the  transfiguration  was 
brief  and  transitory.  The  amazed  and  delighted 
apostles  would  have  had  it  prolonged.  Peter 
said,  —  "It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here."  But 
Jesus  judged  otherwise.  Congenial  to  his  spirit 
as  were  these  heavenly  communings,  he  never 
protracted  them,  but  made  them  only  his  brief 
seasons  of  refreshing  in  the  intervals  of  toil  and 
conflict.  On  the  eve  of  the  Sabbath  he  had  as- 
cended the  mountain  ;  in  the  morning  he  returns 
to  his  work  of  unrequited  love,  and  from  the  sub- 
lime converse  of  glorified  spirits  he  plunges  at 
once  into  a  stubborn  and  unbelieving  multitude, 
and  enters  with  the  most  prompt  and  tender  sym- 
pathy into  one  of  the  most  afflictive  cases  of  dis- 
ease that  ever  demanded  his  aid. 

Here  we  have  a  beautiful  example  of  what  the 


]20  THE    TRANSFIGURATION. 

disciple's  life  ought  to  be.  There  is  something 
fascinating  in  the  walks  of  retired  devotion ;  and 
many  have  been  the  saintly  spirits,  lil^e  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  that  have  been  nurtured  in  clois- 
ters, and  have  been  wholly  intent  on  heavenly 
contemplations.  In  our  day,  and  among  Prot- 
estants, we  sometimes  see  a  tendency  to  an  aes- 
thetic, meditative  piety,  which  seeks  the  refresh- 
ments, without  bearing  the  burdens,  of  the  Gos- 
pel,—  which  would  wear  the  crown,  but  shrinks 
from  the  cross,  —  which  loves  to  commune  with 
God  and  heaven,  yet  likes  not  to  go  as  a  mes- 
senger from  heaven  among  the  doubting,  the 
heavy  laden,  the  suffering,  and  the  sinning.  Not 
thus  do  we  learn  Christ,  as  we  view  him,  first  on 
the  holy  mountain,  and  then  on  the  plain  be- 
neath. Not  always  on  the  mountain  can  his 
true  follower  be  ;  but  often  in  the  working-day 
world,  in  the  busy,  active  walks  of  life,  wher- 
ever a  Christian  example  can  be  felt,  a  Christian 
influence  breathed,  the  unction  of  a  pure  and 
loving  spirit  shed  abroad,  —  often,  too,  where 
there  is  misery  to  be  relieved,  sorrow  to  be 
soothed,  error  to  be  reclaimed,  sin  to  be  put 
away.  The  Christian  must  work  as  well  as 
pray,  —  must  bless  men  no  less  than  he  praises 
God,  —  must  have  his  post  of  positive  duty  on 
earth  no  less  than  his  conversation  in  heaven,  — 
must  so  blend  contemplation  and  activity,  that  in 
his  retired  hours  he  shall  wear  none  of  the  fea- 


THE    TRANSFIGURATIOX.  121 

turcs  of  a  rccluso  or  an  ascetic,  and  in  his  busy- 
seasons  shall  never  forget  that  he  is  a  friend  of 
Christ  and  an  heir  of  heaven.  As  by  the  rever- 
ence of  the  okl  painters  our  Lord  was  distin- 
guished by  a  halo  in  every  scene  and  on  every 
occasion,  so  should  his  disciple  alwaj^s  bear  about 
"svitli  him  rays  of  his  Master's  image. 

It  is  only  by  this  blending  of  contemi)lativc 
and  active  piety,  that  the  highest  results  of  char- 
acter can  be  reached,  and  the  highest  religious 
enjoyment  be  attained.  He  who  is  cold  and  self- 
ish towards  man,  or  neglectful  of  outward  duty, 
cannot  see  God  in  prayer,  or  enjoy  the  full  lux- 
ury of  religious  meditation.  But  God  and  Christ 
are  always  near,  and  heaven  is  ever  open,  to  the 
good  and  faithful  servant.  When  he  prays,  no 
shadow  of  self  intervenes  between  him  and  the 
Father.  When  he  meditates  on  his  Saviour,  he 
feels  drawn  towards  him  by  the  bonds  of  a  close 
spiritual  kindred.  When  his  thoughts  mount  to 
heaven,  they  knock  not  in  vain  at  the  golden  gate. 
And  his  hours  of  prayer,  his  seasons  of  quiet  med- 
itation, always  send  him  back  with  a  more  trust- 
ing, hopeful,  fervent  spirit,  to  do  the  work  of  life. 

These  views  are  beautifully  illustrated  by  an 
old  Romish  legend,  with  which  I  close.  A  pious 
monk,  one  day,  when  he  had  been  unusually  fer- 
vent in  his  devotions,  found  his  darkened  cell 
suddenly  illuminated  by  an  unearthly  light,  and 
there  stood  before  him  a  vision  of  the  Saviour, 
11 


122  THE    TR.1NSFIGURATI0N. 

liis  countenance  beaming  with  godlike  love,  his 
hand  out;  tretched  with  a  gesture  of  kind  invita- 
tion. At  that  moment  rang  the  convent-bell, 
which  called  the  monk,  in  the  regular  course  of 
liis  duty,  to  distribute  alms  to  the  poor  at  the  gate. 
For  an  instant  he  hesitated ;  but  the  next  instant 
found  him,  true  to  the  vow  of  charity,  on  his  way 
to  the  gate.  The  poor  relieved,  the  work  of  love 
complete,  he  returned  in  sadness  to  his  cell, 
doubting  not  that  the  heavenly  vision  had  taken 
flight.  But,  to  his  surprise  and  joy,  it  was  still 
there,  and  with  a  smile  even  more  full  than  be- 
fore of  di\dne  beauty  and  ineffable  love ;  and 
there  came  from  it  the  words,  — "  Hadst  thou 
staid,  I  had  fled." 


SERMON   X. 


THE     RESURRECTION. 
{Preached  on  Easter  Suy^daij,  1845.) 

IF  CHRIST  BE  NOT  RISEN,  TIIEX   IS  OUR    PREACHING  VAIN,  AND 
YOUR  FAITH  IS   ALSO  VAIN. —  1   CorinthianS  XV.  14. 

This  is  a  glad  day  for  the  Church,  —  the  sec- 
ond birthday  of  its  Prince  and  Head,  —  the  day 
when  he  sliowed  himself  immortal,  and  wrote 
over  the  gates  of  the  grave,  for  the  whole  com- 
pany of  his  disciples,  —  "  Because  I  live,  ye  shall 
live  also."  "  The  power  of  his  resurrection,"  — 
how  must  the  apostles  have  felt  it !  Their  only 
concern  was  that  he  might  be  decently  buried, 
and  miglit  be  laid  where  they  could  reach  his 
lifeless  body  with  the  vain  offices  of  bereaved  af- 
fection. They  go  to  the  sepulchre  to  weep  there  ; 
they  return  assured  that  he  still  lives.  Their 
withered  hopes  are  now  renewed,  —  their  lost 
Master  is  theirs  again  and  for  ever ;  and  because 
he  has  risen,  they  now  know  that  the  mansions 
in  the  Father's  house  are  no  fa])le,  —  that  death 


12'i:  THE    KESURRECTION. 

has  no  fatal  sting,  and  the  grave  no  enduring  ter- 
ror. As  in  liarmony  with  the  spirit  of  this  anni- 
versary, I  propose  this  morning,  first,  to  show 
you  how  much  mankind  needed  express  testi- 
mony from  God  with  reference  to  a  life  to  come, 
and  then  to  illustrate  the  peculiar  value  of 
Christ's  resurrection  as  bearing  witness  to  man's 
immortality. 

In  order  to  test  man's  need  of  a  revelation  of 
eternal  life,  let  us  inquire  how,  without  an  ex- 
press revelation,  he  could  obtain  the  knowledge 
of  his  own  immortality.  Apart  from  special  Di- 
vine communications,  our  sources  of  knowledge 
are  consciousness,  observation,  experience,  and 
human  testimony.  Immortality  is  necessarily 
out  of  the  range  of  consciousness  ;  for  we  cannot 
be  conscious  of  the  future.  By  observation  and 
experience  we  can  barely  infer  what  may  proba- 
bly take  place  from  what  has  already  taken  place  ; 
and  if  the  continuance  of  life  after  the  event 
called  death  has  neither  formed  a  part  of  our  ex- 
perience, nor  fallen  under  our  observation,  we 
cannot  derive  our  faith  in  immortality  from  these 
sources.  Human  testimony,  as  regards  contin- 
ued existence  after  death,  cannot  transcend  tlie 
range  of  human  experience ;  and  if  the  veil  of 
eternity  has  never  been  miraculously  lifted,  tlicn 
can  no  man  bear  testimony  as  to  what  lies  beyond 
the  grave. 

We  often  hear,  indeed,  of  arguments  for  a  fu- 


THE    RESUmiECTION.  125 

ture  life  drawn  from  tlio  analogies  of  outward 
nature,  —  from  the  transformation  of  the  earth- 
worm through  deatli  into  a  higlier  form  of  life, 
—  from  the  forthputting  of  tlie  foliage,  and  the 
upspringing  of  the  grass  and  the  flowers,  after 
tlieir  winter's  death.  The  kernel  of  wheat,  it 
is  said,  dies  and  is  decomposed,  but  reappears 
in  the  blade,  the  ear,  the  ripening  sheaf.  All 
Nature  wraps  herself  in  her  burial  garment,  — 
the  winter's  snows  are  her  winding  sheet ;  but 
she  lays  aside  her  funeral  robe  and  springs  in 
fresh  and  beautiful  life  from  the  grave.  These 
analogies  were  before  the  eyes  of  the  apostles 
and  the  holy  women  who  presided  over  our 
Lord's  interment.  It  was  in  the  full  and  gor- 
geous glory  of  an  Asiatic  spring  that  they  laid 
him  in  the  tomb  ;  and  his  tomb  was  in  a  garden, 
surrounded  by  these  boasted  emblems  of  immor- 
tality. Why  did  not  every  green  leaf  and  open- 
ing bud  say  to  them,  —  "He  whom  ye  bury  will 
rise  again  "  ?  Or,  to  make  the  question  more 
comprehensive,  I  would  ask,  Why  were  not  these 
analogies  observed  or  thought  out  by  those  who, 
in  earlier  times  and  in  pagan  countries,  reasoned 
wisely  and  well  of  the  mysteries  of  nature  and 
of  human  life  ?  They  were  not.  At  least,  I 
have  never  met  with  them  in  any  classic  Avrit- 
er.  The  ancient  philosophers,  when  they  reason 
about  immortality,  aim  by  the  most  flimsy  soph- 
istry to  prove  the  pre-existence  and  past  eternity 
11* 


12G  THE    KESURRECTION. 

of  the  human  soul,  and  thence  infer  its  future 
eternity. 

I  think  that  I  can  sliow  you  why  these  hope- 
ful analogies  were  not  observed,  or,  if  observed, 
were  not  relied  on,  before  the  resurrection  of 
Christ.  Analogy  proves  nothing.  It  is  merely 
a  similarity  of  relations  or  principles  between 
beings  or  objects  of  different  classes ;  and  to 
reason  from  analogy  is  to  infer  resemblances  of 
which  we  are  ignorant  from  those  which  we 
know  to  exist.  And  this  we  can  never  do  with 
certainty,  seldom  with  a  high  degree  of  proba- 
bility, especially  when  the  objects  about  which 
we  reason  are  of  widely  different  classes  ;  for 
there  must  always  be  some  point  where  resem- 
blance ceases  and  difference  begins,  and  there 
is  always  room  to  suspect  that  this  point  may 
lie  between  tlie  resemblance  which  we  know 
and  that  which  we  infer.  Thus,  the  kernel  of 
wheat,  the  caterpillar,  and  man,  are  objects  of 
widely  different  classes.  They  resemble  each 
other  in  being  the  creatures  of  God  and  organ- 
ized existences.  But  they  are  so  unlike  in  their 
modes  both  of  life  and  of  death,  that  we  have 
no  rig] it  whatever  to  infer,  that,  because  some- 
tliiiig  like  a  resurrection  takes  j^lace  with  the 
kernel  and  the  caterj^illar,  it  also  will  with 
man. 

AVhat,  then,  is  the  true  province  of  analogy  ? 
It  is  adapted  to  answer  objections  to  truths  of 


THE    RESURRECTION.  127 

wliicli  WG  are  assured  from  otlier  sources  of 
evidence.  Here  analogy  is  a  valid  ground  of. 
argument.  It  can  remove  apparent  improba^ ' 
bility  from  what  at  first  sight  seems  strange,  if 
true.  It  is  no  longer  strange,  if  we  can  show 
that  the  same  thing  is  true,  that  the  same  law 
or  principle  holds  good,  with  regard  to  beings 
or  objects  of  a  different  class.  Thus,  tlie  doc- 
trine of  human  immortality,  if  true,  is  a  stupen- 
dous and  amazing  truth  ;  and  when  the  mind 
is  first  assured  of  it  by  miraculous  testimony 
from  God,  it  yet  seems  something  too  great  and 
too  good  to  be  believed,  and  we  look  around 
through  the  universe  in  a  state  of  partial  in- 
credulity, and  ask,  —  "Is  there  anything  like 
a  resurrection  in  any  of  the  departments  of  na- 
ture with  which  we  are  conversant  ?  "  We  see 
that  there  is.  We  see  the  butterfly  come  forth 
from  his  rent  sepulchre,  —  the  green  blade  from 
the  grave  where  the  sower  hid  the  seed.  We 
see  that  all  nature  dies  and  lives  again.  Our 
scepticism  as  to  what  God  has  revealed  concern- 
ing our  own  future  life  is  removed,  and  we  are 
prepared  to  receive  this  momentous  disclosure 
with  an  earnest  and  loving  faith.  This  is  the 
use  which  Saint  Paul  makes  of  the  ar2:ument 
from  analogy  in  the  chapter  from  which  our 
text  is  taken.  lie  first  from  the  resurrection 
of  Christ  proves  that  of  all  men,  —  represents 
the  latter  as  inseparable  from  the  former,  —  de- 


128  THE    EESUKKECTION. 

nics  the  possibility  of  prcacliing  or  believing  that 
mail  will  rise,  if  Christ  has  not  risen.  But  then 
comes  the  sceptical  inquiry,  "  How  can  this  be  ? 
How  can  the  dead  be  raised,  and  witli  what 
bodies  ?  "  In  re})ly,  he  exhibits  in  the  outward 
universe  instances  of  a  resurrection  of  virtually 
the  same  being  in  a  different  form,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  kernel  of  wheat,  which,  without  changing 
its  identity,  reappears  in  a  different  form  from 
that  in  which  it  was  thrown  into  the  ground. 
By  this  analogy,  he  shows  that  tliere  is  in  tlio 
annual  course  of  nature  a  well-known  fact,  mul- 
tiplied myriads  of  times  over,  in  itself  equally 
strange  and  encompassed  by  the  same  difficulties 
with  the  resurrection  of  man. 

We  see,  then,  that  as  to  immortality  nature  is 
voiceless,  and  man  the  prey  of  unceasing  doubt, 
except  through  Divine  revelation.  And  docs  not 
the  history  of  luiman  belief  and  experience  con- 
firm my  statement  ?  Where,  out  of  the  pale  of 
revealed  religion,  can  you  find  an  instance  of 
firm,  sufficient,  satisfying  faith  in  immortality, 
—  of  a  faith  strong  enough  to  sustain  the  soul 
in  its  seasons  of  the  severest  need,  and  to  give 
it  triumph  in  death?  I  know  not  a  single  in- 
stance. 1'he  dying  Socrates  made  the  nearest 
approach  to  such  a  faith ;  but  between  a  Chris- 
tian death-scene  and  his,  there  is  a  heaven-wide 
contrast.  "  I  liave  strong  hope,"  said  he,  "  that 
I  am  now  going  to  tlie  company  of  good  men ; 


THE    RESURRECTION.  129 

but  on  a  matter  encompassed  Trith  so  mucli 
doubt,  it  becomes  us  not  to  be  too  confident/' 
AVliat  term  of  comparison  is  there  between  such 
a  timid,  hesitating  hope,  and  the  full,  clear  faith 
of  the  believer  in  Christ,  whose  whole  soul  goes 
forth  in  the  glad  declaration,  —  ^'  I  know  that 
my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  his  disciple  cannot 
die  "  ?  The  most  striking  characteristic  of  the 
Christian's  death  is  the  more  than  faith,  the  con- 
fidence that  will  not  entertain  a  doubt,  the  al- 
most unveiled  vision  of  the  life  to  come,  that 
plays  before  the  eyes  just  closing  upon  earthly 
scenes.  I  have  spoken  of  the  greatest  and  most 
revered  of  the  ancient  philosophers ;  and  often 
has  his  image  come  up  before  me  in  the  cham- 
bers of  penury,  and  by  the  death-bed  of  the 
lowly,  and,  except  in  the  word  of  God,  unlet- 
tered, and  constrained  me  to  say  to  myself, — 
"  Surely  the  least  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
greater  than  he." 

There  were  others  of  those  old  philosophers 
who  spoke  fearlessly  of  death.  But  how  ?  By 
bracing  themselves  up  to  look  steadily  and  with 
flinty  face  at  the  dread  alternative  of  annihila- 
tion. To  prove  that  annihilation  is  no  evil  is  the 
ol)ject  of  full  half  of  Cicero's  celebrated  treatise 
on  immortality  ;  and  Seneca,  who  talks  more 
than  any  of  the  ancients  about  the  contempt  of 
death,  manifestly  leans  towards  the  belief  that 
death  is  the  end  of  all  tilings.     Nor  have  I  ever 


130  THE    RESURRECTION. 

known  or  read  of  ca  happy  and  hopeful  death  any- 
where in  Christendom  among  those  who  could 
not  fix  the  eye  of  faith  upon  the  risen  Redeemer. 
Avowed  deists  have  sunk  into  their  last  sleep, 
sometimes  in  hrutish  indifference,  sometimes  in 
indescribable  agony  of  soul.  Those  of  our  own 
day  and  country,  who,  though  claiming  to  be 
called  Christians,  deny  the  resurrection,  yet 
live  ;  and  may  God  grant  them  a  better  mind 
and  a  less  icy  creed,  before  the  chill  of  death 
creeps  over  them  ! 

Our  need  of  the  Saviour's  resurrection  as  a 
support  for  our  faith  in  immortality  may  yet  fur- 
ther appear  from  considering  the  times  when  Ave 
most  need  this  faith.  They  are  not  seasons  wlien 
tlie  intellectual  powers  are  in  the  fullest  activity, 
so  as  to  permit  us  to  take  in  a  wide  range  of 
thought,  and  gather  in  from  the  expanse  of  na- 
ture or  the  phenomena  of  life  arguments  or  illus- 
trations for  our  faith.  But  a  fact,  an  example, 
the  mind  can  always  apprehend  ;  and  it  appeals 
also  to  the  imagination,  —  a  faculty  which  never 
shimbers,  and  is  often  most  active  and  vivid  wlicn 
the  reasoning  powers  are  the  least  so.  When  the 
mind  is  overwhelmed  by  some  sudden  stroke  of 
bereavement,  or  is  intent  on  the  passing  dcatli- 
scene  of  one  tenderly  l)cloved,  or  is  distracted  by 
the  pains  and  infirmities  of  acute  and  fatal  ill- 
ness, it  cannot  ransack  heaven  and  earth  for  as- 
surances of  immortality  ;  and  yet  it  needs  some- 


THE    RESURRECTION.  131 

tiling  above  and  beyond  itself  on  wliich  to  fix 
its  steadfast  regards  of  trust  and  hope.  And  at 
such  a  season,  while  even  distinct  self-conscious- 
ness seems  suspended,  and  there  is  no  car  for  tho 
myriads  of  voices  from  the  outward  world,  or 
even  for  the  tenderest  human  comforter  who 
speaks  of  earthly  things,  the  soul  can  look  to 
the  Saviour's  forsaken  sepulchre,  can  see  the 
burial  garments  drop  from  his  reanimated  form, 
and  can  hear  as  from  the  very  lips  of  the  Re- 
deemer, as  the  angel  rolls  the  stone  away,— 
"He  that  belicveth  in  me  shall  never  die." 

I  shall  go  from  the  sanctuary  to-day  to  the 
home  of  a  widow  bereft  of  her  only  son,  faithful, 
kind,  devoted,  the  staff  of  her  age,  her  first  grief 
in  his  behalf  that  which  rends  her  heart  when 
she  knows  that  he  is  dead.      With  what  words 
shall  I  comfort  the  forlorn   mother?      Shall   I 
babble  to  her  of  flowers  and  butterflies,  and  talk 
about  the  opening   spring?      Or   shall   I   enter 
into  a  metaphysical  disquisition  on  the  nature 
and  laws  of  spirit,  and  attempt  a  labored  proof 
of  immortality,  on  grounds  which  her  lacerated 
mind   can   neither   apprehend   nor   follow?     Or 
shall  I  tell  her  to  look  within,  in  proud  self-re- 
liance, for  her  faith  and  her  support,  when  her 
stricken  and  desolate  spirit  feels  more  than  ever 
its  neediness  and  its  dependence,  and  craves  the 
voice  and  the  sustaining  arm  of  the  Almighty  ? 
0,  no !  I  should  seem  a  wanton  mocker  of  her 


132  THE    KESURRECTION. 

misery.  But  I  can  tell  licr  of  tlio  widow  of 
Nain,  and  who  stopped  the  bier,  —  I  can  talk 
to  licr  of  the  new  tomb  in  Joseph's  garden, 
and  of  the  vision  of  angels  on  the  resurrection 
morning ;  and  1  know  that  my  words  will  not 
seem  to  her  as  idle  tales,  but  as  the  power  and 
wisdom  of  God  for  her  relief  and  consolation. 

Here  let  mo  remark,  that,  in  these  times  of  in- 
tense need,  minds  are  to  a  great  degree  equalized. 
The  strongest  mind,  undisciplined  by  faith,  and 
inured  to  a  godless  self-dependence,  then  finds  it- 
self weak  ;  wliile  the  loftiest  and  richest  intellect 
in  the  school  of  Christ  stoops  to  look  into  the 
place  where  the  Lord  lay,  and  yields  itself  to  the 
guidance  of  humble,  childlike  faith.  At  such 
seasons,  we  all  crave  assurances  of  immortality 
congenial  with  the  passing  scene,  covering  the 
same  ground,  woven  (so  to  speak)  of  the  same 
material.  We  demand  to  see  actual  instances 
of  resurrection  in  a  body  like  our  own,  —  death 
visibly  "  swallowed  up  in  life."  I  am  delighted 
to  find,  as  I  write,  the  testimony  of  one  of  the 
truly  great  men  of  our  times,  recently  deceased, 
to  the  adaptation  of  our  Saviour's  resurrection  to 
his  own  moral  nature  and  necessities.  I  refer 
to  the  late  Dr.  Arnold,  whom  it  would  be  hard  to 
convict  of  weakness  or  superstition.  Speaking  of 
a  death  in  liis  own  family,  he  writes,  —  "Noth- 
ing afibrdcd  us  such  comfort,  when  shrinking 
from  the  outward  accompaniments  of  death,  the 


THE    KESUKRECTION.  103 

grave,  the  grave-clotlics,  the  loneliness,  as  the 
thought  that  all  these  had  been  around  our  Lord 
himself,  round  him  who  died,  and  is  now  alive 
for  evermore." 

And  now  let  me  ask,  — "  ^hy  should  it  be 
thought  a  thing  ineredible,  that  God  shoidd  raise 
the  dead?"  What  good  ground  is  there  for 
scc[>ticism  as  to  the  fact  of  our  Saviour's  resur- 
rection, if  we  only  admit  the  doctrine  of  immor- 
tality as  probable  ?  To  my  mind,  there  is  none. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  expect  to  find 
that  something  of  the  kind  had  taken  place.  I 
should  expect  to  find  instances  of  a  A^isible  resur- 
rection somewhere  in  the  world's  history.  And 
had  they  not  occurred,  nothing  short  of  mathe- 
matical demonstration  would  suffice  to  convince 
me  of  a  life  to  come.  If,  when  the  body  dies, 
the  soul  lives  on,  it  is  of  inestimable  importance 
that  this  fact  should  be  made  known  to  men,  to 
all  men,  to  the  unlettered  no  less  than  to  the 
highly  endowed ;  and  we  cannot  conceive  that 
a  good  God  should  not  have  made  it  known. 
But  how  could  it  be  so  clearly  made  known,  and 
brought  so  near  to  the  apprehension  of  minds  of 
every  class,  as  by  an  illustrious  and  fully  attested 
example  ?  If  the  soul  lives  on,  was  it  not  to  be 
expected,  that,  in  one  instance  at  least,  it  sliould 
return  to  reanimate  the  body,  —  to  sliow  that  the 
grave  is  not  a  place  of  eternal  sleep,  and  that  no 
child  of  God  can  die  ?     To  the  great  mass  of 

12 


10  i  THE    RESURRECTION. 

mankind,  constituted  as  they  are,  this  was  the 
most  striking  and  satisfying  proof  that  could 
have  been  offered.  A  single  example  is  worth 
more  than  an  accumulated  mass  of  the  most  co- 
gent argument ;  for  the  argument,  at  most,  only 
shows  that  the  thing  may  be,  while  the  example 
shows  that  the  thing  is.  Only  take  man's  con- 
tinued life  after  death  for  granted,  and  can  you 
conceive,  that,  under  the  government  of  a  benig- 
nant God,  the  curtain  should  not  in  a  single  in- 
stance have  been  lifted  from  that  life,  and  no 
voice  should  ever  have  been  sent  from  it  to  reas- 
sure those  yet  in  bondage  to  the  fear  of  death  ? 
To  me  the  glimpses  of  another  world  which 
Scripture  history  lets  in  seem  no  less  natural  and 
truth-like  than  beautiful  and  touching.  They 
are,  to  my  mind,  just  Avhat  might  have  been  an- 
ticipated, —  enough  to  make  us  sure  of  a  Avorld 
to  come,  and  yet  not  enough  to  make  us  weary 
of  this  life  before  our  time.  And  most  of  all 
should  I  have  expected  to  find  this  miracle  of  a 
visiljle  resurrection  wrought  in  the  person  of  Him 
whose  express  mission  it  was  to  reveal  to  man  his 
divine  lineage  and  his  immortal  destiny,  and  to 
wake  him  from  the  death  of  sin  to  a  life  worthy 
of  God  and  of  heaven. 

Before  we  part,  let  us  put  to  ourselves  the  mo- 
mentous practical  inquiry.  Arc  Ave  partakers  of 
our  Master's  resurrection  ?  Tlie  apostle  says,  — 
"lie  has  abolislied  death";    and  this  language 


THE    RESURRECTION.  135 

is  literal  rather  than  figurative.  The  incident, 
death^  indeed  remains ;  but  its  significance  is 
destroyed.  It  is  not  the  close,  or  even  the  sus- 
pension, of  being.  It  breaks  not  the  continuity 
of  life.  It  is  simply  an  unclothing  of  the  soul, 
—  a  change  of  its  raiment.  Christ's  resurrec- 
tion makes  both  worlds  one,  reveals  to  us  the 
life  on  this  and  on  tlie  other  side  of  the  grave 
as  one  life.  "  I  go,  and  come  again,"  were  his 
own  words  in  relation  to  what  we  call  death  ; 
and  to  his  disciple  the  last  earthly  hour  is  de- 
parture, not  death.  Before  he  rose,  there  was  a 
great  gulf  between  the  two  worlds.  There  were, 
indeed,  in  the  ancient  writings  of  the  covenant 
people,  one  or  two  instances  in  which  mortals 
were  said  to  have  crossed  this  gulf;  and  Jesus 
had  now  multiplied  these  instances  in  the  case 
of  private  persons,  who  had  mingled  again  with 
tho,  great  mass  of  the  people,  and  bore  about 
with  them  none  of  the  marks  of  death.  But 
now  the  Teacher,  the  Saviour,  he  upon  whom 
are  the  eyes  of  the  whole  nation,  on  their  great 
feast-day,  in  the  presence  of  thousands,  is  slain, 
and  borne  off  for  burial.  He  is  taken  from  the 
prime  of  life  and  energy,  and  his  last  night  has 
been  full  of  stirring,  constraining  eloquence,  so 
that  its  counsels  and  promises  have  ever  since 
been  the  choicest  treasury  of  consolation  for 
God's  afflicted  children.  Thus  full  of  activity 
and  love,  he  is  cut  off  from  the  land  of  the  liv- 


13 G  THE    RESURRECTION. 

ing.  And,  lo  !  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
he  is  again  walking  with  his  friends,  his  wounds 
still  oi)en  and  manifest,  while  his  enemies  rage 
in  impotent  anger,  that  he  on  whose  sepulchre 
they  had  stamped  the  seal  of  absolute  power,  and 
stationed  a  guard  never  known  to  quail  before 
mortal  arm,  should  have  burst  the  seal,  put  the 
keepers  to  flight,  and  resumed  his  benign  mis- 
sion among  the  living.  Should  not  the  contem- 
plation of  his  passage  from  world  to  world  unite 
both  worlds  in  our  view,  and  open  to  our  famil- 
iar thoughts  an  infinite  domain  of  being  in  close 
connection  with  our  present  state  ?  Let  us  live 
as  if  the  two  worlds  were  one,  —  as  children  of 
the  resurrection,  —  as  those  that  cannot  die,  but 
must  go  hence,  and  must  carry  hence  the  very 
souls  that  have  thought,  enjoyed,  and  suffered 
here. 

Again,  the  resurrection  of  Jesus,  with  its  ac- 
companying circumstances,  inspires  the  happiest 
sentiments  with  regard  to  our  friends  that  sleep 
in  him.  Our  Saviour  always  spoke  of  his  resur- 
rection as  the  example  of  that  of  all  men.  If, 
as  some  think,  there  is  to  be  an  oblivion  of  all 
cartlily  ties  in  the  grave,  and  we  shall  know  each 
other  no  more  for  ever,  he  would  have  intimated 
this  by  coming  forth  barely  to  manifest  himself  at 
a  distance,  and  to  live  a})art  from  those  whom  he 
liad  loved  till  death.  How  diiTercnt  the  case ! 
We  sec  him  hastening  at  once  to  show  himself 


THE    IIKSUIIRECTIOX.  107 

to  those  who  liad  most  regretted  liis  departure, 
meeting  the  fuithful  mourners  who  had  gone  ear- 
ly to  the  grave  to  weep  there,  sending  kind  mes- 
sages to  Peter,  crossing  the  path  of  the  disciples  on 
their  way  to  Emmaus,  joining  the  eleven  as  they 
were  assembled  on  that  same  night  in  the  large 
upper  room,  and  for  forty  days  dwelling  among  his 
friends  as  lovingly  as  before  his  death.  Are  we 
wrong  in  inferring  from  these  things,  that,  among 
those  who  share  his  resurrection,  love  remains 
unquenched,  —  that,  among  his  redeemed,  every 
soul  will  attach  itself  to  those  witli  whom  its 
early  lot  Avas  cast  and  the  fibres  of  its  first  being 
interwoven  ? 

Finally,  let  the  contemplation  of  our  risen  Re- 
deemer prepare  us  for  the  time  when  friends 
shall  watch  in  sadness  by  our  death-pillows. 
May  we  have  so  walked  in  the  light  of  immor- 
tality, made  manifest  through  him,  that  in  the 
last  earthly  hour  we  shall  feel  and  fear  no  evil. 
With  calm  and  quiet  confidence  may  we  then 
look  to  him,  who  has  been  our  guide  in  life, 
as  the  conqueror  of  death  and  the  forerunner  of 
our  freed  spirits  in  their  eternal  path  of  duty  and 
progress. 


12* 


SERMON    XI. 


THE    ASCENSION. 

AXD  HE  LED  THEM  OUT  AS  FAR  AS  TO  BETHANY  ;  AND  HE 
LIFTED  UP  HIS  HANDS  AND  BLESSED  THEM.  AND  IT  CAME 
TO  PASS,  WHILE  HE  BLESSED  THEM,  HE  WAS  PARTED  FROM 
THEM,  AND  CARRIED  UP  INTO  HEAVEN. Luke  XXIV.  50,  51. 

The  narrative  of  the  ascension  is  given  by 
Mark  and  Luke  in  their  Gospels,  and  again  by 
Luke,  with  greater  minuteness  of  detail,  in  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles.  It  has  its  prominent  place 
in  the  last-named  record,  because  from  this  CA^ent 
the  apostles  dated  their  commission  as  heads  and 
lawgivers  of  the  spiritual  household.  We  find, 
accordingly,  that  they  at  once  formed  a  Christian 
association,  or  church,  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
members,  proceeded,  after  solemn  deliberation 
and  ])rayer,  to  sup})ly  the  vacancy  in  their  num- 
ber created  l)y  the  death  of  Judas,  and  remained 
in  readiness  fur  tlie  miraculous  manifestations 
of  tlie  Pentecost,  which  occurred  ten  days  after- 
wards. Li  accordance  with  tliis  view,  St.  Paul, 
quoting    with  reference   to    Christ   the   passage, 


THE    ASCENSION.  139 

"  lie  ascended  up  on  liigli,  he  led  captivity  cap- 
tive, and  gave  gifts  unto  men,"  enumerates  among 
those  gifts  "  apostles,  prophets,  evangelists,  pas- 
tors, and  teachers.'* 

I  now  invite  you,  first,  to  consider  with  mo 
the  appropriateness  of  our  Saviour's  ascension, 
regarded  as  the  close  of  his  ministry,  and  then 
to  draw  from  this  event  some  of  the  heads  of 
religious  instruction  which  it  is  adapted  to  fur- 
nish. 

Suppose  the  case  to  have  been  otherwise. 
Suppose  that  Jesus  had  remained  permanently 
upon  the  earth.  In  that  event,  the  church  could 
have  had  no  distinct  and  independent  existence, 
but  would  have  been  inseparable  from  him.  He, 
the  heaven-born,  the  infallible,  so  far  transcended 
all  human  teachers,  that  none  would  have  thought 
the  new  religion  adequately  represented  where 
he  was  not.  His  bodily  presence  would  have  so 
marked  the  spot  where  he  sojourned  as  the  radiat- 
ing point  of  peculiar  light  and  special  privilege, 
that  those  who  should  have  gone  forth  as  his  mes- 
sengers to  distant  provinces  and  countries  would 
have  labored  under  the  greatest  disadvantages 
and  burdens.  None  would  have  deemed  them- 
selves sufficiently  instructed  without  listening  for 
themselves  to  the  great  Teacher.  Nor  would  tlie 
apostles,  wliile  he  was  at  their  head,  have  felt  a 
sufficient  self-confidence  for  their  work.  They 
would  have  relied  on  his  countenance  and  advice 


140  THE   ASCENSION. 

from  (lay  to  clay,  and  would  not  have  trusted 
themselves  to  draw  inferences  or  to  apply  princi- 
ples, witliout  direct  recourse  to  him.  His  earthly 
presence  after  a  certain  period  would  have  con- 
strained and  embarrassed  them,  because  it  was  a 
presence  necessarily  confined  to  one  place,  while 
their  field  of  missionary  labor  was  the  world. 
Therefore,  said  he,  "  It  is  expedient  for  you  that 
I  go  away ;  for,  if  I  go  not  away,  the  Comforter 
will  not  come,  —  the  spirit  of  trust,  courage,  and 
energy  will  not  enter  your  souls, — but  if  I  de- 
part, I  will  send  that  spirit  to  you."  By  going 
from  them,  he  gave  them,  in  lieu  of  a  revelation 
Avhich  they  would  never  have  deemed  complete 
while  he  was  among  them  to  add  to  it,  a  fin- 
ished, perfect  testimony,  —  an  example,  which 
they  could  contemplate  in  its  wholeness  and 
symmetry,  —  a  life,  which  they  coidd  regard  as 
a  fixed  and  unchangeable  centre  of  light  for 
all  times  and  all  men.  He  gave  them,  in  place 
of  an  earthly  presence,  of  which  they  must  often 
have  regretted  the  withdrawal,  a  spiritual  pres- 
ence, which  they  could  feel  always  and  every- 
where. He  assumed  the  only  position  from 
which  he  could  fulfil  his  promise,  — ''  Lo  !  I 
am  Avith  you  always,  even  to  the  end  of  the 
world." 

l]ut  why  might  not  his  body  have  been  again 
laid  in  the  tomb,  and  seen  corruption  ?  We  an- 
swer, that  his  victory  over  death  would  in  that 


THE    ASCENSION.  141 

case  have  sccmocl  partial  and  temporary.  There 
woukl  have  hung  about  his  memory  associations 
of  frailty  and  decay  wliich  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  throw  off.  He  could  not  have  been 
regarded  with  the  full  and  lofty  confidence  witli 
which  Ave  now  look  to  him  as  the  conqueror  of 
death,  and  our  forerunner  to  life  eternal.  It  was 
needful  that  Christ,  being  once  raised  from  the 
dead,  should  die  no  more.  And  it  was  equally 
needful  that  he  should  pass  away  from  tlie  earth 
in  such  a  mode  as  to  inspire  with  courage  his 
then  faint-hearted  followers,  and  to  fix  indelibly 
in  their  minds  the  assurance  that  he  had  come 
from  God,  and  gone  to  God. 

The  mode  of  our  Saviour's  ascension  is  in 
Doautiful  harmony  witli  the  tone  of  his  spirit, 
and  the  whole  cliaracter  of  his  life.  We  liave 
in  the  Old  Testament  a  like  scene  (yet  how  un- 
like !)  in  the  translation  of  Elijah.  lie  was  a 
stern,  awful  old  man.  His  life  was  passed  in 
open,  single-handed  conflict  with  the  banded 
thousands  of  idolatry  and  sin.  The  eyrie  of 
the  mountain-bird  was  his  resting-place,  the 
fierce  forest-Avinds  howled  about  his  patli,  and 
the  jagged  lightning  was  the  lamp  of  his  feet. 
Nurtured  among  the  rudest  scenes  of  nature, 
ever  planted  with  iron  front  and  lowering  brow 
in  the  evil  ways  of  men,  he  seemed  an  embodi- 
ment of  the  untempcred  justice  and  fearful  dis- 
pleasure of  Heaven  against  sinners  ;   and  when 


142  THE    ASCENSION. 

lie  stood  face  to  face  with  the  priests  of  Baal 
on  Mount  Carmcl,  not  the  scathed  cliffs  of  the 
mountain,  or  the  angry  sea-swell  breaking  over 
its  base,  presented  features  of  rough  and  awful 
grandeur  to  be  compared  with  the  countenance 
and  mien  of  the  indignant  seer.  Fit  was  it,  that, 
when  his  conflicts  ceased,  lie  should  be  rapt  away 
in  a  whirlwind,  and  borne  aloft  in  a  chariot  of 
fire. 

Far  otherwise  did  the  Saviour  rise  to  heaven ; 
for  his  whole  life  was  gentle.  Of  him  was  it 
written  (and  how  truly  !) — "  He  shall  not  strive, 
nor  cry.  The  bruised  reed  shall  he  not  break, 
the  smoking  flax  shall  he  not  quench."  His 
walk  had  been  by  the  beautiful  lake  and  over  the 
vine-clad  hills ;  his  lessons  had  been  drawn  from 
the  blooming  valleys  and  the  rejoicing  birds ;  and 
in  the  desert  bread  had  grown  beneath  his  touch, 
and  the  sea  had  become  calm  when  it  bore  him 
on  its  bosom.  And  now,  in  the  rosy  dawn  of  a 
beautiful  spring  morning,  he  gathers  his  chosen 
ones  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem.  He  goes  out 
through  the  same  gate,  and  by  the  vine-embow- 
ered path,  on  which  he  had  walked,  with  the 
same  eleven,  beneath  the  full  midnight  moon, 
fioiii  tlie  paschal  supper  to  the  garden  of  Geth- 
scmaiie,  and  talked  to  them,  as  he  went,  of  the 
lieavenly  vine  and  its  fruitful  branches.  He  goes 
up  the  same  hill  that  had  borne  witness  to  his 
agony,  and  been  moistened  by  his  bloody  sweat. 


THE   ASCENSION.  113 

Before  liiin  lies  tlic  scene  of  his  conflict  and  his 
triumph.  Hard  by  is  the  home  of  the  faithful 
sisters  where  he  had  been  anointed  for  his  burial, 
—  the  tomb  whence  he  had  called  forth  the  sleep- 
ing Lazarus,  —  the  new  sepulchre  where  he  had 
been  laid  with  weeping,  and  where  the  resurrec- 
tion angel  had  rolled  the  stone  away.  He  lifts 
lip  his  hands  and  blesses  his  disciples  ;  and  wliilc 
he  speaks,  the  morning  cloud  parts,  he  rises  and 
passes  from  their  sight,  and  those  hands  still 
outstretched  in  blessing  disappear.  So  calm,  so 
glad,  are  all  the  influences  of  the  scene,  that 
the  disciples  feel  not  their  bereavement  as  when 
he  died.  The  blessing  has  sunk  into  their  hearts, 
and  they  go  back  to  Jerusalem  with  great  joy; 
for  they  remember  those  words,  — ''  Where  I  am, 
there  ye  shall  be  also."  They  realize  the  ful- 
filment of  that  which  before  they  understood 
not,  — "  Whither  I  go  ye  know,  and  the  way 
ye  know." 

"  Thus  calmly,  slowly,  did  he  rise 
Into  his  native  skies, 
His  human  form  dissolved  on  high 
In  its  own  radiancy." 

He  rose  to  heaven,  we  say.  What,  or  where, 
heaven  is,  we  indeed  know  not.  We  know  not 
how  far  it  is  to  be  regarded  as  local,  and  how  far 
as  all-pervading,  like  the  presence  of  God.  But 
we  cannot  help  thinking  of  it  as  in  some  sense 
away  from  earth,  and,  if  so,  up,  —  up  beyond  the 


144  THE   ASCENSION. 

clouds,  where  tlie  sun  grows  not  dim,  where 
sliadows  gather  not.  Beneath,  all  around,  there 
is  violence,  sin,  and  suffering,  mists  hang,  and 
darkness  broods  ;  and  men,  in  all  ages  and  under 
all  religions,  have  looked  up  for  the  dwelling  of 
God  and  the  home  of  the  blessed,  thus  giving  as 
it  were  the  consent  of  the  race  in  the  tacit  belief, 
that,  while  God  is  here  and  everywhere,  and  his 
glorified  children  may  go  wherever  he  dwells, 
there  yet  are  up  beyond  our  sight  regions  of  the 
universe  where  he  is  beheld  with  clearer  vision 
and  worshipped  with  purer  joy.  We  are  so 
made,  that  our  holiest  thoughts  always  mount, 
—  our  best  aspirations  are  all  upward.  It  is  an 
association  with  space,  of  which,  reason  against 
it  as  we  may,  we  cannot  divest  ourselves ;  and  to 
this  irresistible  tendency  of  our  minds  the  scene 
before  us  is  adapted.  It  connects  our  Saviour's 
translation  from  human  sight,  and  his  peculiar 
dwelling,  with  all  that  is  pure,  holy,  and  hopeful 
in  our  hearts.  It  lifts  our  desires  from  passing 
scenes  and  grovelling  pursuits.  It  creates  for 
our  faith  a  loftier,  purer,  brighter  atmosphere. 
It  blends  with  our  own  prospects  for  eternity 
every  elevated  association  that  can  be  borrowed 
from  the  fields  of  space.  It  places  heaven  in 
direct  contrast  with  the  grave.  That  is  down, 
beneath  men's  feet ;  heaven  is  on  high.  The 
two  have  nothing  in  common  ;  but,  in  the  light 
of  the  resurrection  morning,  death  has  lost  his 
sting  and  the  grave  its  victory. 


THE    ASCKNSIOX.  115 

Let  lis  now  give  liccd  to  some  of  the  lessons 
Avhich  tlic  ascension  afTords  for  our  faith  and 
Christian  edification. 

Our  Saviour,  though  God-horn  and  heaven- 
dcsccndod,  is  always  placed  before  us  as  the  pat- 
torn  of  suffering,  sanctified,  glorified  humanity. 
As  he  was,  so  are  we  in  the  world.  As  he  is, 
so  shall  we  be,  if  found  in  his  image.  He  is  the 
forerunner  ;  we,  his  followers.  We  are  to  follow 
him  in  death,  —  then  to  be  partakers  of  his  resur- 
rection, —  then,  of  his  ascension  ;  and  his  ascen- 
sion is  but  the  consummation  of  his  death  and 
resurrection.  The  whole  is  but  one  act,  divided 
in  his  case  into  three  separate  stages,  that  we 
may  contemplate  each  by  itself,  and  may  connect 
the  latter  stages  of  glory  with  the  first  of  pain, 
agony,  and  decay.  Calvary,  Joseph's  tomb,  and 
the  ascension  mount  lay  close  together,  and  in 
our  faith  they  are  one.  When  Jesus  died,  he 
could  not  but  rise  again  ;  when  he  rose,  he  could 
not  but  go  home  to  the  Father.  But  he,  when 
he  rose,  took  again  his  own  body,  to  show  that 
he  still  lived ;  and  he  ascended  in  that  same 
form  to  heaven,  to  show  that  the  true  home  of 
the  dead  is  not  in  the  grave,  but  above.  Thus  is 
it  with  the  disciple.  Death,  resurrection,  ascen- 
sion, are  the  three  stages  of  his  passage  hence. 
The  body  dies  and  sees  corruption ;  —  the  soul 
rises  from  the  worn  and  useless  tabernacle  of 
clay,  and  ascends  to  God  who  gave  it. 

13 


IIG  THE    ASCENSION. 

Sucli  arc  tlic  associations  which  our  Saviour's 
last  days  cniglit  to  connect  Avith  the  death  of  the 
righteous.  But  liow  prone  we  are  to  let  our 
thoughts  linger  on  the  first  stage  of  the  passage, 
—  on  the  mere  outward  habiliments  of  death, — 
without  remembering  that  all  these  were  around 
liim  who  rose  and  went  on  high ! 

We  say  that  we  believe  that  our  good  friends 
have  gone  to  heaven.  But  still  the  death-scene 
oppresses  us,  and  often  clothes  our  souls  in  im- 
penetrable gloom.  We  must,  indeed,  deeply  feel 
their  absence  from  us,  the  loss  of  their  counsel 
or  society,  of  their  endeared  countenances  and 
their  ministries  of  love.  But  suppose  that  the 
friend  whom  we  mourn,  instead  of  having  pressed 
the  bed  of  languisliing,  and  breathed  out  his  life 
in  convulsive  sighs,  had  gone  from  our  sight  as 
Jesus  went,  and  we  had  traced  with  our  own 
eyes  the  bright  path  on  wliich  he  ascended,  — 
I  can  hardly  conceive  of  oppressive  sadness  and 
bitter  weeping  on  his  behalf.  Rather,  because 
we  loved  our  friend,  should  we  rejoice  that  he 
liad  gone  to  the  Father.  We  should  feel  thank- 
ful for  him  that  his  days  of  conflict  and  sorrow 
had  ceased,  and  our  surviving  affection  would 
breathe  in  the  hope  of  meeting  him  in  his  radi- 
ant liome,  when  our  own  summons  came. 

Such  associations  we,  as  Christians,  ought  to 
connect  with  the  death  of  our  Christian  friends ; 
for  the  death  of  tlie  believer  in  Jesus  is  his  as- 


THE    ASCENSION.  147 

ccnsion,  —  Ycilcd,  indeed,  from  tlie  outward  vis- 
ion, but  to  bo  recognized  by  the  eye  of  faith. 
But  the  most  spiritual  of  us  do  not  regard  death 
as  we  should,  had  \vc  our  dwelling  in  a  purely 
Christian  community.  Wc  view  it  too  much 
through  the  medium  transmitted  from  pagan 
times  and  regions,  and  let  in  upon  us  from 
the  unchristian  portion  of  the  world  around 
us.  Suppose,  however,  a  community  in  which 
there  was  iio  person  of  mature  years,  who  was 
not  in  heart  and  life  a  disciple  of  Jesus,  and 
imagine  a  death  in  such  a  society.  As  I  bring 
the  scene  before  me,  the  death-chamber  seems 
like  the  mount  of  the  ascension,  and  every  one 
says,  —  "  It  is  good  to  be  here."  I  see  no  agony 
of  grief,  no  look  of  despair,  by  the  bedside ;  but 
survivors  unite  Avith  the  dying  saint  in  praise 
and  thanksgiving  ;  and  their  adieus  are  full  of 
congratulations  with  him  that  he  is  counted 
worthy  to  be  first  summoned  from  the  outer 
courts  to  the  inner  temple  of  his  God.  When 
the  spirit  has  fled,  I  liear  those  that  remain 
talking  of  him  who  has  gone  as  no  less  one  of 
the  family  than  before,  and  as  only  having  pre- 
ceded tliem  by  a  little  way,  to  make  ready  the 
new  mansion  for  tliem  all  to  dwell  in  when  the 
earthly  house  shall  be  dissolved.  At  the  inter- 
ment I  hear  no  sad  knell,  I  see  no  sal)le  proces- 
sion, no  pomp  of  woo  ;  but  the  dust  is  laid  in 
kindred  dust  with  solemn  joy,  and  with  hymns 


148  THE    ASCENSION. 

of  gratitude  to  Christ,  the  resurrection  and  the 
life.  Thus  will  the  death  of  the  innocent  and 
holy  seem  to  us  now,  in  the  precise  proportion 
in  which  we  horrow  our  views,  not  from  tlie  dark, 
cold  philosophy  of  the  irreligious  world,  but  from 
the  Gospel  and  life  of  our  dying,  risen,  ascended 
Redeemer. 

To  pass  to  another  head  of  instruction,  we 
have  seen  that  it  was  expedient  for  the  disci- 
ples, that  Jesus,  after  he  liad  finished  his  testi- 
mony and  wrought  his  work,  should  go  away 
from  them,  in  order  that  they  might  put  forth 
energies  which  would  have  continued  latent  had 
he  remained  with  them,  —  that  they  might  be 
equal  to  duties  and  services  beyond  their  dar- 
ing while  he  visibly  held  the  chief  place  and  as- 
sumed the  heaviest  burdens.  Thus  is  it  often 
Avith  those  human  friends  through  whom  God 
gives  us  faithful  counsels,  pure  examples,  and 
holy  influences.  Up  to  a  certain  point,  their 
presence  educates,  strengthens,  and  blesses  us ; 
beyond  that  point,  it  often  restrains  and  depresses 
our  own  independent  energies.  We  shrink  into 
their  shadows.  AVe  roll  every  burden  upon  them. 
We  will  not  think  ourselves  adequate  to  any  high 
or  arduous  effort,  while  they  are  with  us.  AVe 
assume  nothing,  while  they  have  strength  to  do 
and  bear  everything.  It  is,  therefore,  no  doubt, 
hard  as  the  saying  sounds,  expedient  for  us  that 
they  should  go  away.     Bereavement  often  calls 


THE    ASCENSION.  110 

out  inward  powers  and  resources  previously  un- 
known. Those  who  had  felt,  while  their  main 
earthly  staff  was  left  them,  that  they  were  weak, 
and  lame,  and  unable  to  stand  or  move  alone, 
when  deprived  of  that  whereon  they  leaned, 
often  find  themselves  strengthened  as  by  an 
unseen  hand,  and  can  forthwith  "  walk,  and 
leap,  and  glorify  God."  When  those  who  were 
as  eyes  to  the  blind  and  as  feet  to  the  lame 
arc  removed,  how  often  are  the  sealed  eyes 
opened,  and  the  feeble  feet  made  firm !  Wc 
all  have  indefinitely  large  capacities  of  action, 
effort,  and  endurance,  but  wait  to  hear  the  call 
and  feel  the  impulse  before  we  put  them  forth ; 
and  they  too  often  lie  unused  till  the  departure 
of  those  who  seemed  the  most  essential  members 
of  our  domestic  and  social  circles  pushes  us  into 
the  foremost  rank,  and,  while  it  imposes  fresh 
and  high  responsibilities,  endues  us  at  the  same 
time  with  both  the  will  and  the  power  to  dis- 
charge them.  Death  is  thus  not  only  the  mower 
of  sheaves  ripe  for  the  harvest,  but  the  great 
ripener  of  character ;  for,  by  removing  some 
plants,  it  is  constantly  exposing  others  to  the 
influences  needful  for  their  maturity. 

We  may  see  numerous  illustrations  of  these 
remarks  in  communities  both  secular  and  relig- 
ious, where  the  very  men  who  are  the  first  to 
raise  the  cry,  —  "Help,  Lord,  for  the  faithful 
fail,  the  godly  cease," —  soon  fnid  themselves,  to 

13* 


loO  THE   ASCENSION. 

tlicir  own  amazement,  inspired  and  furnished  for 
the  places  of  those  whom  thcj  mourn.  We  see 
the  same  principle  often  exemplified  in  domestic 
life.  The  mother,  who,  while  her  husband  lived, 
liad  scarcely  energy  and  self-confidence  enough 
for  her  own  gentle  sway,  when  left  sole  parent,  is 
enabled  to  fill  the  double  office  with  vigor  and  with 
wisdom,  through  the  helping  spirit  of  the  wid- 
ow's God  and  Judge.  Thus  is  it  that  from  the 
saddest  of  all  God's  dispensations  flow  the  high- 
est results,  mental  and  spiritual,  in  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  capacity  and  sphere  of  duty  of  those 
whose  circle  is  visited  by  a  bereaving  Providence. 
The  gospel  of  the  ascension  suggests  yet  an- 
other lesson.  Gethsemane,  the  garden  of  agony, 
and  Bethany,  the  scene  of  the  ascension,  lie  close 
together  on  the  Mount  of  Olives.  The  same  air 
that  had  borne  the  sighs  and  groans  of  that  night 
of  sorrow  was  parted  by  the  glorious  form  as  it 
rose  to  heaven.  Thus  is  it  in  common  life.  The 
mount  of  ascension  is  no  separate  spot,  hallowed 
from  the  approach  of  grief  or  the  conflict  of  doubt 
and  fear.  But  the  death  of  the  righteous  every- 
where consecrates  scenes  of  sadness  and  suffer- 
ing, of  privation  and  agony,  marking  them  as 
spots  nearest  heaven.  The  spirit  of  Christian- 
ity here  differs  widely  from  that  of  all  other 
modes  of  faith.  They  set  apart,  fence  in,  crown 
with  splendid  monuments,  scenes  made  glorious 
hy  the  victories  and  daring  exploits  of  outwardly 


THE    ASCENSION.  151 

illustrious  men.  The  Christian  shrines  are  those 
of  suffering  or  of  lowly  toil.  The  church  com- 
memorated tlie  Saviour's  death  long  before  it 
kept  the  festival  of  his  birth ;  and  no  scenes  in 
his  disciple's  life  are  fraught  with  so  intense  an 
interest  as  those  where  he  has  passed  through 
the  hrc-baptism  of  sorrow,  waged  decisive  con- 
flicts with  the  powers  of  evil,  and  risen,  in  the 
serene  might  of  faith  and  trust,  above  outward 
misery  and  suffering.  When  Jesus  prayed  in 
agony,  the  glory  that  awaited  him  rose  before  his 
'view,  and  gave  him  strength  to  bear  and  over- 
come ;  for  the  Scriptures  tell  us  that  he,  "  for 
the  joy  that  was  set  before  him,  endured  the 
cross,  and  despised  the  shame."  The  dark  hours 
of  the  crucifixion  were  before  him  ;  but  there 
played  also  before  his  vision  the  majesty  and 
glory  of  his  return  to  God,  —  of  his  new  birth 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Are  scenes  of  se- 
vere or  sorrowful  discipline  appointed  to  any 
of  us  ?  Are  we  depressed  by  penury,  bowed 
down  by  infirmity,  bereft  of  cherished  kindred 
and  bosom  friends  ?  Are  we  compelled  to  move 
on  beneath  clouds,  and  on  a  painful  path  ?  From 
this  path  we  may  ascend  to  God,  —  through  these 
clouds  lies  the  way  to  heaven.  For  us,  as  for  our 
Lord,  may  the  same  scenes  be  those  of  conflict 
and  of  triumph,  of  agony  and  glory,  of  our  bow- 
ing under  earth's  heaviest  burdens  and  mounting 
to  heaven's  purest  joys. 


152  THE    ASCENSION. 

Finally,  tlicrc  is  in  tlio  narrative  of  our  Sav- 
iour's ascension  a  lesson  of  Cliristian  activity  and 
zeal  for  all  of  us  avIio  call  ourselves  his  disciples. 
When  lie  went  on  high,  it  was  not  the  apostles 
alone,  tlic  official  heads  of  the  churcli,  but  the 
whole  hundred  and  twenty,  tlie  entire  body  of  be- 
lievers, that  came  forward  to  assume  the  charge 
thus  devolved  from  the  Master  upon  his  follow- 
ers. And  in  the  labors  and  sacrifices  of  the  in- 
fant church  all  that  believed  bore  part.  All  felt 
that  they  stood  in  a  place  of  duty  no  less  than  of 
privilege,  —  that  they  were  to  enlarge,  enrich, 
adorn,  the  sanctuary,  instead  of  nestling  idly  be- 
hind its  curtain-folds.  Every  Christian  deemed 
himself  endowed  with  an  apostle's  commission  to 
honor  in  life,  and  to  diffuse  by  faithful  effort,  the 
Gospel  which  he  had  found  precious.  Should  it 
not  be  so  now  ?  The  Divine  Teacher  is  with  us 
only  through  his  pervading  and  always  blessing 
spirit.  He  has  left  his  whole  work  of  reclaiming 
sinners  and  bringing  in  eternal  righteousness  to 
luiman  instrumentality  ;  and  not  to  one  or  an- 
otlicr  order  of  men,  but  to  all,  liis  command  is, 
—  "Freely  ye  have  received,  freely  give."  The 
prcaclnng  of  tlie  Gospel  belongs  to  you  no  less 
than  to  me,  though  in  a  different  way.  You,  wlio 
profess  yourselves  Cliristians,  are  bound  to  relig- 
ious zeal  and  effort  by  the  law  of  self-consistency. 
In  advancing  your  favorite  secular  enterprises, 
oi)inions,  and  measures,  you  never  content  your- 


THE    ASCENSION.  153 

selves  with  the  services  of  leaders  or  of  ofTiclal 
persons.  You  sustain  their  hands  and  encour- 
age their  hearts.  You  tender  them  your  efficient 
co-operation.  You  make  their  special  work  your 
frequent  work.  Yet,  Christian,  in  the  cause 
Avliicli  you  profess  to  regard  as  above  all  oth- 
ers, wliero  are  the  footmarks  of  your  activity, 
where  the  goings  forth  of  your  zeal  ?  In  what 
form  or  way  have  you  left  traces  of  your  handi- 
work in  the  spiritual  temple  ?  Where  are  the 
religious  charities  which  you  have  helped  admin- 
ister,—  the  tempted  and  endangered  whom  you 
have  led  to  Christ,  —  the  hungering  souls  for 
whom  you  have  broken  the  bread  of  life  ?  Atq 
there  not  some  in  our  household  of  faith  who 
bear  not  these  marks  of  the  Lord  Jesus  ?  You 
indeed  help  employ  the  religious  services  of  one 
for  a  thousand  souls.  But  what  is  he,  and  what 
are  his  services,  among  so  many  ?  As  the  organ 
of  public  devotion,  as  the  sympathizing  friend  of 
a  limited  circle  of  the  tempted,  poor,  and  grief- 
stricken,  he  may,  indeed,  do  much,  yet  not  a  tithe 
of  what  demands  to  be  done.  He  needs  you  all 
as  fellow- workers.  Every  Christian  should  be  a 
preacher  of  righteousness,  a  minister  of  the  Gos- 
pel, keeping  this  one  interest  prominent  through 
the  cares  and  duties  of  daily  life,  remembering 
the  high  calling  of  Christ  Jesus  while  engaged 
in  the  labors  of  his  secular  calling,  watching  for 
avcnvies  of  religious  usefulness,  and,  above  all, 


loi  THE    ASCENSION. 

guarding  with  prayerful  yigilance  tlie  silent  out- 
flow of  liis  example,  wliicli,  if  not  made  holy  and 
sanctifying,  can  liardly  fail  to  wound  the  cause 
of  Clu'ist  and  to  weaken  the  hold  of  his  religion 
on  the  hearts  of  men.  Thus  consecrating  our- 
selves to  the  duties  as  well  as  to  tlie  joys  of  piety, 
to  the  burdens  no  less  than  to  tlie  privileges  of 
the  Christian  life,  we  may  realize  the  fulfilment 
of  the  early  recorded  blessing,  — "  The  liberal 
soul  shall  be  enriched,  and  he  that  watereth 
shall  be  watered  also  himself." 


SERMON    XII 


SOURCES    or    CONSOLATION. 

LET    NOT    YOUR    HEART    BE    TROUBLED,   NEITHER    LET    IT    BE 

AFRAID.  —  John  xiv.  27. 

Yet  said  the  same  Teacher,  — "  In  the  world 
ye  shall  have  tribulation";  and  who  passes  or 
approaches  the  meridian  of  life  without  having 
felt  it  ?  How  few  of  our  long-established  homes 
have  not  been  darkened  by  the  wings  of  the 
death-angel !  And  in  those  few,  have  there  not 
been  seasons  of  weary  and  perilous  illness,  of 
deep  solicitude  and  agonizing  suspense  on  ac- 
count of  the  tenderly  beloved?  To  this  heri- 
tage of  certain  sorrow  must  our  young  friends 
look  forward,  if  they  live.  We  would  not  abate 
aught  from  the  buoyancy  of  their  hopes.  Nay, 
we  would  assure  them,  that,  if  they  forsake  not 
the  law  and  covenant  of  their  God,  they  have 
happy  lives  before  them,  —  happy,  yet  not  cloud- 
less. Their  path  will  sometimes  be  under  a  dark- 
ened sky,  —  their  rest  in  homes  made  desolate. 


loQ  SOUKCICS    OF    COXSOLATIOX. 

But  ill  Va2  prospect  or  tho  endurance  of  these 
sorrows,  there  come  to  us  the  words  of  Jesus, — 
"  Let  not  3'our  lieart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be 
afraid."  And  he  who  utters  these  Avords  alone 
can  enable  us  fully  to  verify  them  in  our  experi- 
ence. I  now  ask  your  attention  to  the  Christian 
relief  and  remedy  for  those  fears  and  sorrows  that 
flow  from  our  domestic  relations  and  affections. 

In  seasons  of  anxiety  in  behalf  of  those  whom 
Ave  loA'e,  or  of  sorrow  for  tlieir  remoA'al  from  us, 
Ave  need  moet  of  all  a  firm  and  active  faitli  in 
God  as  our  Father  and  their  Father,  and  as  or- 
dering all  the  events  of  their  lives  and  of  ours  in 
infinite  love.  It  is  not  enough  that  Ave  say  to 
ourselves,  —  "These  sad  CA^ents  are  a  necessary 
part  of  the  course  of  nature."  We  shall  feel  it 
a  gricA^ous  burden  to  dwell  where  such  necessity 
gives  law.  The  thought  that  these  things  must 
needs  be  gives  no  consolation,  but  only  clothes 
our  sky  in  new  gloom.  Nor  can  yet  any  reason- 
ing on  general  laAvs  meet  the  wants  of  the  soul 
at  such  a  season.  The  idea  of  laAvs  of  nature, 
omnipotent,  irrcA- ersible,  crushing,  —  of  a  system 
in  the  main  beneficent,  Avhich  yet  has  its  hard 
cases  and  its  victims,  —  Aveighs  down  the  spirit 
as  Avitli  an  iron  hand.  In  connection  Avitli  this 
idea,  there  always  comes  up  the  torturing  ques- 
tion,—  "  Could  not  the  issue  that  has  taken  place 
have  been  foreseen  and  averted,  had  wo  been 
more  Avatchful  and  more  Avisc  ?  "    The  only  con- 


SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION.  157 

ccption  wliicli  can  satisfy  the  deep  want  of  the 
soul  in  sorrow  is  that  of  an  impartial,  all-merci- 
ful Providence,  under  whose  administration  there 
is  no  wanton  infliction,  no  aimless  suffering,  no 
event  which  it  is  not  best  for  us  to  meet  and  bear. 
AVe  need  that  faith  in  the  Father  which  shall  re- 
fer the  trial  to  no  second  cause,  to  the  uncon- 
trolled working  of  no  material  law,  but  solely  to 
the  merciful  purpose  of  one  who  wounds  but  to 
heal,  whose  very  rod  comforts  while  it  chastens. 
True,  we  may  not  always  discern  at  the  moment 
the  appointed  ministry  of  sorrow.  Nor  yet  can 
our  children  always  discern  the  reasons  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  measures  which  we  take  for  their 
good.  And,  in  the  strength  and  pride  of  man- 
hood, we  must  feel  that  in  God's  hands  we  are 
still  children,  often  ignorant  of  our  true  good, 
craving  the  outward  blessings  which  might  send 
leanness  into  our  souls,  shrinking  from  the  waters 
in  which  alone  we  can  receive  our  true  spiritual 
baptism. 

But  how  are  we  to  acquire  and  sustain  this 
filial  fliith  ?  I  know  not,  except  through  our 
Saviour.  It  is  easy,  indeed,  in  the  summer 
weather  of  health  and  prosperity,  to  take  in 
bright  views  of  the  Creator's  love  from  the 
most  radiant  leaves  of  the  book  of  nature  and 
of  Providence  ;  but  in  the  hour  of  deep  solici- 
tude or  sorrow,  the  eye  rests  upon  gloomier  rec- 
ords.    As  we  attempt  to  trace  the  Father's  coun- 

14 


158  SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION. 

tcnancc,  clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about 
him,  —  liis  way  is  in  the  sea,  his  judgments  are 
past  finding  out.  There  come  up  before  our 
minds  the  fearful  analogies  of  nature,  the  fierce 
and  mysterious  agencies  that  deal  desolation  and 
death,  the  appalling  forms  of  wretchedness  and 
suffering  always  to  be  witnessed  among  men  ;  and 
it  is  impossible  for  us  so  to  direct  our  trains  of 
thought  among  the  mixed  and  clouded  scenes  of 
the  outward  world,  as  to  call  up  the  cheerful, 
hopeful  associations  which  we  need.  Indeed,  the 
aspects  of  nature  and  of  life  are  so  infinitely  va- 
ried, that  they  can  hardly  fail  to  reflect  the  mood 
of  the  mind  for  the  time  being.  Then,  too,  there 
is  a  prostration  of  spirit,  which  prevents  our  tak- 
ing those  large,  discursive  views,  and  indulging 
in  those  tasteful  speculations,  which  amuse  and 
delight  our  happier  hours.  Sorrow,  while  it 
touches  to  the  finest  issues  every  portion  of  the 
moral  nature,  leaves  the  mind  too  little  elasticity 
and  enterprise  to  reason  out  its  own  sources  of 
consolation  from  the  conflicting  aspects  and  jar- 
ring voices  of  the  world  around. 

AVe  need,  then,  to  be,  as  it  were,  taken  by  the 
hand,  and  led  directly  to  the  Father,  by  some 
elder  brother,  wlio  has  entered  more  deeply  into 
the  secret  of  his  love,  and  who  dwells  in  his 
bosom.  This  Jesus  does  for  us.  Wlien  he  tells 
us  of  tlic  loving-kindness  of  God,  we  feel  that  he 
speaks  of  that  which  lie  knows,  and  testifies  of 


SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION.  159 

that  wliicli  lie  lias  scon.  Wc  behold  him  moving 
Oil  in  a  dark  and  ever-darkening  path,  yet  serene 
and  happy,  because  the  Father  was  with  him. 
While  we  see  in  his  works  tlie  seal  of  his  com- 
mission from  on  high,  his  tranquil,  resigned,  suIj- 
missive,  yet  fervent  and  energetic  spirit,  concil- 
iates our  confidence,  —  pleads  with  our  hearts  to 
believe  and  trust  him.  His  words  seem  no  less 
divine  than  if  uttered  in  our  own  ears  by  a  voice 
from  heaven.  Take  all  else  away,  cloud  over 
every  outward  scene,  shut  out  every  secondary 
source  of  consolation,  yet  leave  us  those  last  con- 
versations and  prayers  of  Jesus  with  his  disciples, 
and  leave  us  with  and  in  them  a  vivid  conception 
of  the  man  of  sorrows  and  of  glory  ;  and  we 
have  enough  for  comfort,  support,  and  hope. 
AYith  those  divine  words,  with  that  benignant 
countenance,  the  express  image  of  the  Fatlier's, 
we  can  go  down  into  the  valley  of  tribulation 
without  doubt,  murmur,  or  complaint,  assured  of 
the  guidance  and  protection  in  which  he  trusted 
and  rejoiced. 

Again,  in  our  seasons  of  sorrow,  we  need  the 
kind  of  sympathy  which  Jesus  alone  can  fully  be- 
stow, —  the  sympatliy  of  one  who  has  both  en- 
dured and  conquered,  who  has  fathomed  and  sur- 
mounted the  depths  of  earthly  grief,  and  who, 
from  his  own  experience,  can  say  to  us,  —  "  Be 
of  good  cheer ;  I  have  overcome  the  world." 
Among    our    friends    we    cling    for   consolation 


IGO  SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION. 

cliiefly  to  those  who  have  also  suffered ;  and 
no  countenance  beams  upon  us  so  full  of  com- 
fort as  that  marked  with  the  lines  of  deep  and 
frequent  sorrow,  yet  bearing  the  impress  of  relig- 
ious peace,  of  heavenly  communings,  and  high 
spiritual  joy.  We  read  our  own  appointed  his- 
tory in  the  face  of  such  a  friend.  We  see  the 
ever-brightening  path,  with  its  glorious  issues,  of 
those  who  through  much  tribulation  are  to  enter 
tlie  kingdom  of  God.  In  Jesus  we  behold  sorrow 
in  its  beauty  and  its  blessedness.  We  learn  in 
him  that  it  has  no  harsh  ministry,  no  vindictive 
purpose,  but  that  whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  clias- 
teneth ;  for  we  know  that  the  Father's  love  was 
no  less  entire  and  full  for  him,  when  he  hung 
upon  the  cross,  than  when  he  was  transfigured 
on  the  mountain.  We  see  in  him,  tliat  sorrow 
need  not  check  the  serene  flow  of  holy  and  happy 
thoughts,  —  that  the  supreme  good  is  not  out- 
ward joy,  but  a  soul  at  peace  with  God,  and 
in  harmony  with  heaven.  And  these  lessons  we 
learn  from  one  of  whose  fellow-feeling  witli  us  we 
are  all  the  while  conscious.  It  is  a  blessed  and 
sustaining  thought,  that  our  glorified  fellow-suf- 
ferer is  with  us  in  our  hour  of  trial,  unchanged 
in  love  from  the  time  when  he  wept  at  the  tomb 
of  Lazarus,  and  bore  meekly  the  strifes,  doubts, 
and  fears  of  his  still  frail  disciples.  We  go  back 
in  our  musing  to  the  days  of  his  flesh.  We  re- 
call that  scene,  when  he,  the  conqueror  of  death, 


SOLRCKS    OF    CONSOLATION.  IGl 

stands  bowed  in  tlic  tcndcrost  sympatliy  with  the 
sorrow  which  he  is  so  soon  to  change  into  glad- 
ness. We  ponder  every  word  of  that  interview 
with  the  kind  sisters,  —  a  season  no  less  memora- 
ble for  the  opening  of  the  depths  of  a  heart  fnll 
of  divine  compassion,  than  for  its  stupendons 
miracle  of  omnipotent  mercy.  The  words  of 
tliat  lionr  sink  into  our  hearts,  as  thougli  heard 
by  the  outward  car,  and  give  us  new  strength 
to  bear  the  cross  in  our  Saviour's  name  and 
spirit. 

Once  more,  in  our  seasons  of  sorrow,  we  need 
a  clear,  firm,  elastic,  available  faith  in  immortal- 
ity, in  the  eternity  of  our  affections,  and  in  the 
deathless  union  of  those  whom  death  has  parted. 
This  faith  is  not  to  be  derived  in  its  sufficiency 
and  fulness  from  mere  analogies  of  nature,  or 
from  that  instinctive  desire  of  life  which  is  proof 
of  nothing  beyond  itself.  When  everything  smiles 
around  us,  it  is  easy  to  read  in  the  swelling  bud 
and  the  transfigured  earth-worm  the  assurance 
that  man  will  not  wholly  and  for  ever  slumber 
in  the  grave.  But  those  who  have  delighted  the 
most  in  these  correspondences  of  the  outward  and 
the  spiritual  find  them  inadequate  in  their  hour 
of  need.  They  are  precious  in  their  place  and 
for  their  use.  They  serve  to  spiritualize  nature, 
to  draw  voices  of  praise  and  love  from  her  perish- 
ing forms,  and  to  bring  nearer  to  the  heart  the 
*' incorruptible  spirit"  that  is  in  all  things.    But 

14* 


1G2  SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION. 

vrhcn  a  friend  goes  from  iis  and  passes  behind  the 
veil,  Ave  crave  something  more  definite.  We  long 
to  see  the  veil  parted.  We  long  for  a  voice  to 
break  the  eternal  silence,  and  to  assure  us  that 
tlie  departed  indeed  live,  —  that,  though  dead, 
they  live.  Wc  look  upon  the  countless  genera- 
tions that  have  followed  each  other  to  the  grave  ; 
and,  if  we  can  see  no  sign  from  the  spirit-land,  if 
none  have  ever  returned,  none  brought  tidings 
from  the  home  to  which  tliey  have  been  gath- 
ered, oh,  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  a  painted 
flower-cup  or  an  insect's  wing,  nor  yet  of  a  con- 
sciousness and  experience  which  have  no  future, 
to  proclaim  to  us  a  truth  so  vast  and  world- 
embracing  as  man's  immortality.  From  the  to- 
kens and  emblems  of  dissolution,  we  turn,  then, 
to  the  gates  of  Nain,  —  we  listen  for  the  voice, 
"Young  man,  arise!"  —  we  see  the  cold  form 
stirred  again  with  the  breath  of  life,  —  the  sealed 
eyes  look  upon  the  face  of  the  Lord,  —  the  dead 
lives ;  and  the  shout  of  the  rejoicing  multitude, 

—  "  God  hath  visited  and  redeemed  his  people," 

—  rings  in  our  ears,  and  makes  melody  in  our 
hearts,  as  we  sit  in  our  desolate  homes,  or  bend 
at  the  grave-side.  0,  blessed  be  our  Father,  that 
tliis  voice  of  power  lias  been  uttered  upon  eartli, 
tliat  the  caverns  of  the  grave  have  been  unsealed 
and  its  kingdom  shaken,  that  the  omnipotent  fiat 
has  swept  over  the  valley  of  death  in  the  sight 
of  the  living,  that  the  long  procession  of  the  dy- 


SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION.  1G3 

ing  has  been  met  and  turned  back  by  the  Lord 
of  life  ! 

My  young  friends  who  have  not  known  the  bit- 
terness of  sorrow,  I  beg  you,  think  not  lightly 
of  these  miracles.  Think  not  with  easy  com- 
placency of  teachers  who  come  in  their  own 
names,  and  would  tell  you  that  Jesus  came  in 
his,  —  Avho  would  turn  the  record  of  his  mighty 
works  into  a  fiible,  and  make  his  resurrection  a 
lie.  This  self-sustaining  theology  may  seem  good 
to  you  while  your  mountain  stands  firm.  It  im- 
poses no  severe  restraints.  It  lays  upon  you 
no  crushing  load  of  duty.  It  flatters  your  self- 
esteem.  It  chimes  in  with  the  natural  tendency, 
which  none  overcome  without  a  struggle,  to  seek 
the  consciousness  of  being  good  without  any  very 
earnest  effort  to  be  good.  But  wait  till  the  clouds 
gather  and  the  floods  come.  Wait  till  one  dearer 
than  your  own  life  lies  dead  at  your  side,  and 
your  grief  darkens  for  you  every  scene  of  nature 
and  of  life,  and  mufiQes  into  sepulchral  tones 
every  gay  and  hopeful  voice  from  the  outward 
world.  I  pray  that  you  may  then  know  tlic 
worth  of  your  Saviour's  miracles  and  the  power 
of  his  resurrection.  I  more  than  pity  you,  if, 
at  that  hour,  the  death-awakening  voice  of  Jesus 
does  not  kindle  in  your  hearts  a  humble,  thank- 
ful faith. 

It  is  not,  then,  the  wisdom  of  the  wise,  but  the 
words  and  works,  the  death  and  resurrection,  of 


1G4  SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION. 

Christ  alone,  that  can  give  us  the  consolation  and 
support  that  we  need  in  our  seasons  of  sorrow. 
AVithin  a  few  days  I  have  reperused  the  corre- 
spondence of  Cicero,  with  reference  to  the  death 
of  his  accomplished  and  tenderly  beloved  daugh- 
ter. He,  in  his  luxurious  leisure,  had  written 
eloquently  about  immortality.  But  now  all  his 
dreams  of  a  happy  future  have  fled,  and  his  soul 
is  utterly  desolate.  "  Public  employment  alone," 
he  says,  ''  can  afford  resource  or  consolation ;  and 
the  opportunity  for  that  is  cut  off  by  the  distract- 
ed state  of  the  commonwealth."  There  remains 
for  him,  therefore,  only  hopeless  grief  and  rem- 
ediless despair.  On  thus  seeing  how  absolutely 
nothing  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  four  thou- 
sand years  could  do  towards  healing  tlie  sorrows 
of  one  who  had  it  all  at  his  command,  I  felt  more 
than  ever  our  boundless  debt  of  gratitude  to  Him 
who  has  abolished  death,  and  brought  life  and 
immortality  to  light.  When  the  bereaved  parent 
asks,  in  agony.  Where  is  my  child  ?  nature  and 
philosophy  only  echo  back  the  question  with  a 
more  desponding  emphasis.  Jesus  alone  has  an- 
swered it.  Only  the  garden  Avhere  they  laid  him 
yields  us  spring-flowers  to  strew  upon  the  graves 
of  our  kindred.  He  shall  wipe  all  tears  from  our 
eyes,  and  bring  our  souls,  if  found  in  his  faith 
and  spirit,  unto  undying  communion  with  tliose 
wliom  he  lias  taken  to  himself.  And  while  we, 
and  those  who  have  gone  frOxU  us,  surround  the 


SOURCES    OF    CONSOLATION.  165 

throne  with  our  hosaunas,  we  shall  own,  with 
higlier  evidence  than  we  can  now  perceive,  that 
death  is  the  angel  of  divine  love,  and  the  grave 
the  gate  of  heaven. 


SERMON    XIII 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

FATHER,    I    WILL   THAT   THEY   ALSO    WHOM    THOU    HAST   GIVEN 
»IE    BE    WITH    ME    WHERE    I    AM.  —  Jolm  XVU.  24. 

For  many  from  our  households  has  this  prayer 
been  fulfilled,  and  we  profess  no  doubt  that  it 
has  been.  Yet  does  our  tone  of  feeling  with  ref- 
erence to  the  pure  and  good  that  have  gone  from 
us  fully  correspond  with  our  belief?  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  chide  sorrow  for  tlie  departed.  I, 
too,  well  know  what  it  is,  —  how  keen  is  the 
first  agony  of  bereavement,  —  how  protracted, 
long  after  all  outward  traces  of  grief  have  passed 
away,  is  the  sense  of  disappointment  and  deso- 
lation. But,  aside  from  all  consciousness  of  per- 
sonal privation  and  loss,  our  views  of  death  arc 
affected  in  part  by  the  unchristian  notions  and 
feelings  with  regard  to  it  entertained  by  many 
with  whom  we  arc  daily  conversant,  and  in  part 
by  the  frequency  with  which  we  see  removed 
from  life   persons  whose   characters  suggest  no 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  1C7 

liappy  or  hopeful  associations  in  connection  with 
their  immortality  There  are  some  denomina- 
tions of  Christians,  —  the  Moravians  and  Sweden- 
borgians,  for  instance,  —  that  seem  to  approach 
mucli  nearer  than  others  to  the  true  tone  of  feel- 
ing with  regard  to  death.  But  I  cannot  find  that 
on  this  subject  they  believe  anything  which  wo 
do  not.  The  reason  wliy  they  can  the  more  fully 
realize  in  experience  what  they  believe  is,  that 
they  are  bodies  of  Christians  seldom  joined  ex- 
cept by  sincere  believers,  and  that  they  keep 
themselves  very  much  within  their  own  respec- 
tive households  of  faith,  so  that  their  trusting 
and  hopeful  spirit  for  the  dead  is  exposed  to 
fewer  counteracting  influences  than  can  be  the 
case  with  us.  This  seclusion  from  the  general 
intercourse  of  the  world,  though  pleasant  in 
some  of  its  aspects,  is  not,  it  seems  to  me,  to 
be  desired  or  sought  by  the  Christian.  "  I  pray 
not,"  said  our  Saviour,  "  that  thou  shouldest 
take  them  out  of  the  world,  but  that  thou  sliould- 
est  keep  them  from  the  evil."  More  of  the  lux- 
ury of  faith  and  devotion  might,  no  doubt,  be 
enjoyed  in  these  close  Christian  corporations ; 
but  by  the  discipline  of  the  great  world,  and 
by  the  opportunities  of  religious  influence  which 
it  presents,  tliere  is  a  much  larger  amount  of 
duty  to  be  performed,  and  a  much  higher  point 
of  spiritual  attainment  to  be  reached. 

Let  us,  at  this  time,  gather  up  some  of  tho 


1G8  CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

views  of  death  and  eternity,  whicli  may  give  us 
consolation  in  the  departure  of  those  for  whom 
the  prayer  of  our  text  has  been  fulfilled. 

In  the  first  place,  we  cannot  help  regarding 
those  wlio  have  been  called  to  the  heavenly  so- 
ciety as  happy  in  the  season  of  their  removal. 
It  is  fit,  indeed,  that  death  should  be  attended 
with  circumstances  of  pain  and  dread,  —  else 
the  weary  and  afflicted  would  hasten  to  drop 
the  burden  of  life  before  their  time.  But  if 
there  be  a  world  beyond,  for  each  soul  there 
must  be  a  time  of  translation ;  and  can  we 
doubt  that  God's  time  is  the  right  and  the 
best  time  ?  There  must  be  a  moment  when 
this  world  ceases  to  be  the  fittest  scene  of  dis- 
cipline for  the  improving  spirit.  Heaven  reaps 
a  large  harvest  from  the  most  brilliant  promise 
of  early  life  ;  but  is  it  not  well  that  the  fruit 
first  ripe  should  be  first  gathered  ?  The  cum- 
berer  of  the  ground  may  be  left  year  after  year, 
so  long  as  there  remains  even  a  germ  of  spiritual 
life  ;  for  even  in  autumn  that  germ  may  bud 
and  blossom,  and  if  it  finally  dies  within  him, 
it  is  by  his  own  act,  not  by  God's.  He  may  be 
left,  too,  as  a  discipline  for  the  faith,  patience, 
and  charity  of  others,  and  may  not  be  removed 
till  his  moral  desolation  and  penury  liave  helped 
many  to  seek  tlie  wealth  whicli  he  has  despised. 
The  good  and  faithful  may  also  be  spared  long, 
not  only  because  they  are  needed  here,  but  be- 


CONSOLING    VIi:WS    OF    DEATH.  ICO 

cause  tlic}"  may  still  gain  and  grow  continually, 
and  witliout  check,  from  the  means  of  progress 
here  open  to  them.  Others  may  early  exhaust, 
for  their  own  peculiar  habits  of  mind  and  heart, 
the  earthly  resources  designed  for  their  culture. 
Being  made  perfect  in  a  short  time,  they  have 
fnllillod  a  long  time.  Their  souls  pleased  tlio 
Lord,  —  therefore  hasted  he  to  take  them  away. 
Some  shrink  with  too  much  sensitiveness  from 
the  unavoidable  trials  and  conflicts  of  thcii" 
earthly  life,  and  at  the  same  time  every  fibre 
of  their  moral  natures  is  in  harmony  with 
heaven.  Why,  then,  should  the  Good  Shep- 
herd leave  them  in  bleak  places,  when  his  own 
green  pastures  by  the  still  waters  are  the  very 
rest  they  crave  ?  Many  are  taken  from  the  evil 
to  come,  from  trials  which  might  have  crushed 
instead  of  strengthening  them,  from  burdens 
which  would  have  weighed  too  heavily  upon 
their  souls.  Others  might  have  been  exposed 
to  less  propitious  moral  influences,  had  they 
lived  longer.  Temptations  might  have  thick- 
ened around  them,  —  worldly,  selfish  aims  might 
have  dimmed  the  beauty  of  their  early  promise. 
Of  many  a  young  man  cut  down,  in  what  we 
call  untimely  death,  when  just  leaving  a  relig- 
ious home  for  unsheltered  scenes  of  moral  evil 
and  jeopardy,  may  it  be  said,  as  of  the  patri- 
arch Enoch,  —  "He  pleased  Grod  and  was  be- 
loved of  him,  so  that,  living  among  sinners,  he 

15 


170  CONSOLING    VIEAVS    OF    DEATH. 

was  translated.  Yea,  speedily  was  he  taken 
away,  Ic:  t  that  wickedness  should  alter  his  un- 
derstanding, or  deceit  beguile  his  soul."  Hard 
as  it  is,  when  the  heavenly  guest  is  summoned 
from  our  own  tables,  to  say,  "  Thy  w^ill  be  done ! " 
I  cannot  doubt,  that  in  the  condition  of  mind 
and  character  of  every  child  that  God  calls  home, 
whether  in  infancy,  youth,  or  age,  there  is  some- 
thing which  renders  the  appointed  time  the  best 
of  all  times  for  his  translation,  —  that  either  a 
longer  or  a  shorter  life  would  have  been  attended 
with  less  happy  results. 

For  us  who  remain,  also,  must  not  our  friends 
be  taken  in  the  best  time  ?  Even  if  it  be  when 
they  seem  most  needed  here,  may  we  not  in- 
tensely need  the  flow  of  holier,  more  heaven- 
ward thoughts,  of  which  sorrow  unlocks  the 
spring  ?  No  doubt,  our  moral  progress  is  at 
times  arrested  by  causes  beyond  our  power, — 
earthward  and  heavenly  influences  are  so  poised 
against  each  other,  that  with  the  utmost  eflbrt 
we  barely  hold  our  ground,  and  take  no  onward 
steps.  Affliction  disturbs  this  balance,  and  gives 
our  better  desires  freer  scope  and  more  perfect 
issues.  There  is  a  conscious  nearness  to  heaven, 
which  belongs  only  to  those  who  have  seen  their 
best  beloved  pass  within  its  gates.  There  are 
home  feelings  connected  with  heaven,  known 
only  by  those  whose  families  are  divided  between 
the  two  worlds,  which  gain  new  strength  with 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  171 

every  new  translation.  When  from  our  future 
life  we  look  back  upon  tlie  present,  I  doubt  not 
tbat  we  shall  sec,  that,  of  all  our  experiences, 
our  sorrows  were  among  the  most  precious,  — 
that  our  seasons  of  bereavement  and  darkness 
were  those  when  our  souls  most  truly  grew  in 
divine  strength  and  wisdom,  when  our  best  reso- 
lutions were  fixed,  our  purest  sentiments  made 
abiding,  our  higher  natures  most  nourished  and 
enriched.  By  God's  appointment  we  arc  to  be 
made  perfect  through  suffering ;  and  while  the 
best  may  be  rendered  still  better  through  its  min- 
istry, and  the  aged  saint  may  find  it  in  his  heart 
even  to  thank  God  for  his  afflictive  mercies,  we 
who  are  yet  midway  in  the  path  of  life,  and  in 
full  conflict  with  every  unspiritual  tendency  and 
influence,  must  own  the  fitness  of  those  events 
which  most  clearly  reveal  to  us  our  true  calling 
and  our  highest  good. 

Thoughts  of  heaven  might,  it  seems  to  me, 
give  us  more  consolation  than  we  are  wont  to 
derive  from  that  source.  We  employ  with  re- 
gard to  death  a  great  deal  of  pagan  imagery, 
which  can  hardly  fail  to  let  low  and  unworthy 
ideas  into  our  minds.  We  talk  of  the  blig-hting- 
of  early  promise,  of  the  premature  death  of  the 
young  and  the  beautiful.  We  too  often  speak 
of  the  pure  and  the  good  that  have  gone  from  us, 
as  if  they  were  objects  of  pity.  We  regret  for 
them  the  brief  pleasures,  the  withering  joys,  of 


172  CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

the  passing  days.  And  then  our  thoughts  revert, 
oftencr  than  a  high  Christian  culture  shoukl  per- 
mit, to  the  sad  accompaniments  of  dissohition 
and  the  hist  lonely  home  of  the  frail  tenement 
of  clay,  even  as  the  caterpillar  might  look  upon 
the  torn  covering  of  the  chrysalis  as  all  that  .re- 
mained of  his  fellow-worm,  ignorant  that  the  rent 
and  forsaken  tabernacle  marked  the  higher  birth 
of  its  tenant.  But  our  faith  tells  us  that  to  those 
to  whom  it  was  Christ  to  live,  it  is  gain  to  die. 
Let  our  thoughts,  then,  linger  not  about  the  grave, 
but  seek  our  kindred  hi  the  nearer  presence  of 
their  Father  and  their  Saviour,  in  the  home  where 
every  holy  wish  is  met  and  every  pure  desire  ful- 
filled, where  suffering  and  sorrow  are  no  more, 
and  life  clothes  itself  in  eternal  youth  and  unfad- 
ing beauty.  What  would  our  brief  joys  be  to 
those  to  whom  all  the  avenues  of  divine  wisdom 
are  free,  the  riches  of  infinite  love  unfolded,  and 
a  boundless  sphere  of  duty  and  of  happiness  laid 
open? 

"  How  happy 
The  holy  spirits  who  wander  there, 
'Mid  flowers  that  shall  never  fade  or  fall ! 
Thougli  mine  were  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
Though  the  stars  themselves  had  flowers  for  me. 
One  blossom  of  heaven  outblooms  them  all. 
Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 
As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall; 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  ?ndless  years, 
One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all." 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  173 

"We  know  tliat  our  innocent  children,  our  good 
friends,  arc  liappy,  infinitely  liappy.  Were  they 
of  a  gentle  and  tender  spirit,  pure  in  heart,  kind, 
peaceful,  ever  seeking  the  things  that  are  more 
excellent  ?  Their  communion  now  is  only  with 
the  most  congenial  scenes  and  ohjects.  Their 
souls  shall  no  more  hunger  and  thirst  after  right- 
eousness, as  they  often  did  under  the  infirmity 
and  depression  of  earthly  trial.  Every  pure  taste, 
every  kind  affection,  has  found  its  kindred  nutri- 
ment and  joy.  It  is  a  kingdom  prepared  for  them^ 
adapted  to  meet  their  desires,  to  satisfy  their  long- 
ings, to  fill  their  souls  with  the  fulness  of  divine 
love. 

Immortality,  in  order  to  give  us  consolation, 
must  not  be  looked  at  merely  as  a  general  truth. 
We  must  individualize  it,  and  apply  it  to  separate 
traits  of  character  and  forms  of  loveliness.  It  is 
not  in  one  unvarying  frame  of  spirit  and  routine 
of  duty  and  joy  that  we  must  conceive  of  the  re- 
deemed as  living  on  for  ever ;  but  of  each  as  re- 
taining his  own  peculiar  mental  and  moral  fea- 
tures, so  that,  while  all  shine  as  the  brightness  of 
the  firmament,  they  differ  as  one  star  differs  from 
another  in  glory.  Heaven  undoubtedly  presents 
various  modes  of  activity  and  avenues  of  pro- 
gress, the  tree  of  life  bears  divers  kinds  of  fruit, 
corresponding  to  the  different  combinations  of 
worthy  and  heavenly  elements  of  character  with 
which  different  souls  pass  into  their  higher  state. 

15* 


174  CONSOLIXG    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

When  I  think  of  the  kindred  and  friends  who 
may  welcome  me  to  heaven,  I  want  to  tliink  not 
of  any  precise  number  of  angelic  beings,  alike 
except  in  their  degrees  of  attainment,  —  I  would 
bring  them  up  in  their  individual  forms  and  fea- 
tures, in  those  delicate  hues  and  blendings  of 
character,  those  traits  of  loveliness  to  be  felt, 
yet  not  described,  which  linger  always  on  our 
memories.  And  as  their  tones  of  voice  still  dwell 
upon  our  hearts,  and  their  countenances  are  ever 
living  there,  why  need  we  suppose  that  even  these 
in  their  individuality  have  passed  away,  that  is, 
so  far  as  the  soul  gave  them  shape  and  utterance  ? 
The  tongue,  the  face,  is  indeed  for  ever  cold  and 
dead.  But  in  some  form  or  way  spirits  must  be 
manifest  to,  and  hold  converse  with,  one  another. 
Why,  then,  may  not  some  likeness  to  the  earthly 
countenance  and  voice  (at  least  so  far  as  to  pro- 
duce sameness  of  impression)  survive  in  whatever 
form  of  life  the  translated  spirit  may  assume,  so 
that,  when  friends  meet  friends  in  heaven,  there 
may  be  something  in  their  so  Avidely  different 
mode  of  existence  to  recall  even  the  looks  and 
tones  through  which  they  had  known  each  other 
here  ? 

These  are  not  merely  idle  speculations.  We 
want  not  only  to  know,  but  to  feel,  that  our  friends 
are  in  heaven  and  are  happy  ;  and  the  more  vivid 
the  conception  that  we  can  form  of  their  present 
state,  the  stronger  and  more  availing  will  be  our 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  175 

licart-faitli  in  their  happiness.  The  great  dif- 
ficulty lies  in  conceiving  of  them  as  still  living. 
Our  thoughts  keep  running  back  to  the  time  when 
tliey  were  with  us,  and  to  the  parting  scene,  as  if 
that  were  the  end  of  all.  But  if  we  are  permit- 
ted to  take  them  in  our  thoughts,  as  they  were 
in  tlieir  individual  traits  of  character,  with  every 
beautiful  and  lovely  look  and  tone  that  we  remem- 
ber, and  to  bear  them  thus  unchanged  to  their 
place  near  the  eternal  throne,  it  helps  us  meditate 
upon  their  present  condition.  We  can  thus  bring 
ourselves  into  vivid  and  delightful  communion 
with  those  whom  the  curtain  of  death  veils  from 
us.  They  come  up  before  us,  as  in  the  days  of 
their  health  and  hope,  when  ''  the  secret  of  God 
was  upon  tlieir  tabernacle,  and  their  glory  was 
fresh  within  them."  They  come  up,  the  child 
with  his  innocent  brow,  the  young  and  the  beauti- 
ful, the  revered  parent  with  that  same  benignant 
smile,  so  glowing  and  lifelike ;  and  as  they  stand 
before  us  in  their  redemption  robes,  hand  seems 
again  joined  in  hand,  heart  throbs  with  heart,  they 
commune  with  us  of  happy  days  gone  by  and  of 
gladness  yet  to  come,  and  when  the  vision  breaks, 
we  can  almost  hear  the  rustling  of  their  garments 
as  they  go  from  us,  and  trace  the  line  of  living 
light  on  which  they  mount  to  heaven. 

Again,  the  feeling  of  entire  and  life-long  sep- 
aration from  our  departed  friends  is  one  of  the 
most  bitter  ingredients  in  our  cup  of  sorrow.     AVo 


17G  CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

could  bear,  with  miicli  cliccrfulncss  of  liopc,  tlicir 
absence,  their  long  absence,  from  lis.  Oceans  or 
years  may  intervene  between  them  and  our  em- 
brace, and  still  there  is  no  settled  sadness  on  their 
account ;  for  our  love  bridges  over  time  and  space, 
—  they  are  living,  —  they  are  happy,  —  the  months 
of  separation  will  pass  rapidly  away.  But  as  for 
those  in  heaven,  avo  are  apt  to  feel,  that,  so  long 
as  we  live,  they  are  necessarily  remote  from  our 
intercourse  and  sympathy.  Far  otherwise,  how- 
ever, is  the  spirit  of  our  Saviour  and  of  his  re- 
ligion, which  blends  the  worlds  that  seem  so  far 
apart.  We  may  be  nearer  to  the  dead  than  to  the 
absent.  Where  the  dead  are  we  know  not,  nor 
need  we  know.  But  that  they  and  we  are  in  the 
house  of  the  same  Father  we  do  know,  and  wo 
doubt  not  that  they  have  free  range  through  the 
house,  and  may  revisit  at  pleasure  the  apartments 
where  they  used  to  dwell.  The  scenes,  the  dis- 
courses, the  miracles,  of  the  New  Testament  bring 
the  dead  very  near  the  abodes  of  the  living.  An 
old  English  divine,  speaking  of  the  communion 
of  the  dead  and  the  living,  says  :  —  "  Little  know 
we  how  little  a  way  a  soul  hath  to  go  to  heaven, 
when  it  doi)arts  from  the  body.  Whether  it  must 
pass  locally  through  moon  and  sun  and  firmament, 
or  whether  that  soul  find  new  light  in  the  same 
room,  and  be  not  carried  into  any  other,  but  that 
the  glory  of  heaven  be  diiTused  over  all,  I  know 
not,  I  dispute  not,  I  inquire  not.     Without  dis- 


CONSOLIXG    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  177 

puting  or  inquiring,  I  know,  that,  wliou  Christ 
says  that  God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  lie  says 
that  to  assure  nie  that  tliose  whom  I  call  dead  arc 
alive.  If  the  dead  and  we  be  not  upon  one  floor, 
nor  under  one  story,  yet  we  are  under  one  roof. 
We  think  not  a  friend  lost  because  he  is  gone  into 
another  room,  nor  because  he  is  gone  into  another 
land,  and  into  another  world  no  man  is  gone ; 
for  that  heaven  which  God  created  and  this  world 
is  all  one  world.  If  I  had  fixed  a  son  in  court, 
or  married  my  daughter  into  a  plentiful  for- 
tune, I  were  satisfied  for  that  son  and  daughter. 
Shall  I  not  be  so,  when  the  King  of  heaven  hath 
taken  that  son  to  himself,  and  married  himself  to 
that  daughter  for  ever  ?  This  is  the  faith  that 
sustains  me,  when  I  lose  by  the  death  of  others, 
or  suffer  by  living  in  misery  myself,  that  the  dead 
and  we  arc  all  now  in  one  church,  and  at  the  res- 
urrection shall  all  be  in  one  choir."  The  dead 
cannot  be  far  from  the  living,  nor  can  they  cease 
to  love  them.  Separated  from  us  but  by  a  thin 
veil,  to  them  transparent,  and  almost  so  to  our 
faith,  they  are  the  cloud  of  witnesses  that  com- 
pass us  about,  survey  our  path,  and  rejoice  in  our 
progress.  Let  us  feel  that  they  are  with  us  in 
prayer  and  praise,  in  duty  and  devotion.  Let 
the  thought  of  their  watchful  love  give  us  at  once 
comfort  and  strength,  —  comfort  for  their  depart- 
ure,—  strength  that  we  may  follow  them. 

The  idea  of  the  probable  nearness  of  the  de- 


178  CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

parted  to  us  now  leads  us  naturally  to  speak  of 
our  reunion  with  tliem  in  heaven.  This  is  to  my 
mind  inseparable  from  the  doctrine  of  immortal- 
ity. I  cannot  conceive  of  the  continued  life  of 
the  same  beings  that  live  here,  without  the  con- 
tinuance of  those  strong  and  tender  affections 
which  make  so  large  a  part  of  the  occupation 
and  the  joy  of  life.  I  feel  conscious  that  my 
love  for  the  friends  whom  God  has  called  away 
from  me  is  an  indestructible  part  of  my  charac- 
ter, and  that  to  tear  it  from  my  soul  would  be  to 
annihilate  me,  and  substitute  another  being  in 
my  stead.  But  without  this  loss  of  my  identity, 
I  know  that  my  happiness  in  heaven  would  be  in- 
complete, unless  I  found  myself  consciously  in 
the  society  of  the  pure  and  lioly  who  have  been 
taken  from  me.  Do  any  stigmatize  our  earnest 
craving  for  the  society  of  our  friends  in  heaven 
as  a  scKish  feeling  ?  Whatever  name  it  bear,  I 
glory  in  it ;  and  I  know  tliat  God  wrote  it  on  my 
heart  when. he  made  mo  a  child,  when  he  made 
me  a  parent.  It  is  an  emotion  that  glowed  in 
the  bosom  of  Jesus  ;  for  was  it  not  his  prayer,  — 
"  Father,  I  will  that  they  whom  thou  hast  given 
me  be  with  me  where  I  am  "  ?  And  is  not  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead  always  presented  in  the 
New  Testament  in  its  social  aspects  ?  Those 
whom  our  Saviour  restored  to  life  were  all  given 
back  to  the  l)osom  of  their  fmiilies.  He  raised 
the  Avidow's  son,  and  oave  him  to  his  mother. 


CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH.  179 

Ho  took  the  father  and  motlicr  of  tlic  young 
maiden,  and  presented  her  to  them  alive.  lie 
called  forth  Lazarus  to  the  embrace  of  his  sisters. 
In  thus  doing,  has  he  not  pledged  himself  to  do 
the  like  in  the  resurrection  of  the  just  ?  Will  he 
not,  then,  bring  parted  friends  together,  and  re- 
store the  long  lost,  yet  unforgotten  ?  In  every 
family  consecrated  to  his  love,  shall  not  the 
widow  receive  back  her  son,  and  the  parent 
take  his  child  to  his  embrace,  and  the  sister 
her  risen  brother  ? 

I  can  hold  no  sympathy  with  that  stern,  gloomy 
mood  of  theological  teaching  which  tells  us  that 
our  affection  for  our  kindred  and  friends  ought 
to  be  here,  and  will  be  in  heaven  completely 
merged  in  our  love  for  God  and  for  man  in 
general.  Such  is  not  the  lesson  which  we  might 
learn  from  our  own  growth  in  piety.  Our  domes- 
tic affections  increase  in  intensity  and  purity  with 
the  growth  of  our  love  to  God.  No  families  are 
so  closely  and  tenderly  united  by  mutual  affec- 
tion, as  those  where  the  spirit  of  heaven  is  shed 
abroad  in  every  heart.  A  home  where  perfect 
love  reigns  is  a  laboratory  of  those  kind  and  de- 
vout affections  which  go  up  to  God,  and  range 
round  the  universe.  Nor  can  we  forget  that  he 
who  dwelt  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  and  shed 
his  reconciling  blood  for  the  whole  family  of  man, 
was  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend,  —  that  he 
wept  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus,  —  that  he  had  a 


180  CONSOLING    VIEWS    OF    DEATH. 

favorite  discipb, — tluit  liis  dying  cyos  sought 
out  his  mother.  The  soul  has,  indeed,  an  in- 
definite capacity  of  loving  ;  but  it  has  not  an 
infinite  range  of  knowledge  or  power  of  ac- 
quaintance. In  heaven  we  shall,  no  doubt, 
love  every  child  of  God ;  but  we  cannot  know 
all  alike,  or  be  equally  intimate  with  all.  From 
the  very  fmiteness  of  our  natures,  we  must  have 
our  peculiar  associates  and  friends ;  and  who  so 
likely  to  stand  in  that  relation  as  those  who  were 
nurtured  at  the  same  family  altar  ?  Doubt  not, 
then,  that  in  heaven  Ave  shall  be  united  as  we  are 
now,  —  that  as  our  love  for  God  and  for  his  uni- 
verse of  being  grows,  so  will  those  elective  affini- 
ties which  embrace  individual  friends  grow  in 
equal  proportion,  so  that  we  of  tlie  same  house- 
hold shall  become  more  and  more  one  family,  our 
aims  and  pursuits,  our  tastes  and  aspirations, 
more  and  more  intimately  blended,  so  long  as 
God  shall  exist. 


SERMON    XI Y 


COME    UP    HITHER. 

THEY   HEARD   A    GREAT    VOICE    FROM    HEATEX,    SAYING    UNTO 
THEM,    COME    UP   HITHER. Kcvclatioll  xL  12. 

I  HAVE  stood  in  a  narrow  valley,  shut  out  by 
gigantic  mountains  from  all  the  world  beside. 
The  grass  and  flowers  were  drenched  with  dew. 
The  sun  had  not  risen  high  enough  to  shine  upon 
them.  The  cliffs,  with  bare,  craggy  brows  and 
bald  summits,  frowned  on  either  side,  and  the 
wliole  landscape  was  insufferably  dreary  and  des- 
olate. I  have  stood  on  the  peak  of  one  of  those 
cliffs,  and  thence,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
have  seen  only  verdure,  beauty,  and  grandeur,  — 
tlic  thin  mist  steaming  up  from  winding  rivulets, 
dew-drops  sparkling,  hill-tops  beaming  with  crys- 
tal light,  flakes  of  fleecy  cloud  flitting  across  the 
sky,  and  their  blue  shadows  dancing  up  and 
down  the  mountain-sides,  and  all  nature  bathed 
in  tlie  Creator's  blessing.  And  that  little  valley 
then  smiled  far  beneath  me,  and  looked  like  a 

16 


182  COME    UP    HITHER. 

very  Eden.  Thus  do  all  earthly  scenes  depend 
upon  the  point  of  view  from  which  they  are  be- 
held. The  dwellers  in  the  valley  often  get,  for 
many  days,  no  cheerful  view.  But  to  him  who 
dwells  aloft  and  looks  down,  all  things  are  bright 
and  good.  We,  for  the  most  part,  live  below, 
where  the  mists  are  all  around  us,  and  the  dew 
lies  late  upon  our  path.  But  a  great  voice  from 
heaven  has  reached  us,  saying,  —  "  Come  up 
hither."  Jesus  invites  us  to  lead  with  him  a 
higher  life  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father.  He 
lifts  us  where  we  can  look  down  upon  the  world, 
with  all  its  strivings  and  its  sorrows,  and  see  it 
as  it  lies  beneath  the  smile  of  divine  love,  its 
clouds  spanned  with  the  bow  of  peace,  its  tears 
the  dew-drops  of  a  happy  morning.  This  is  the 
Christian's  point  of  view,  for  which  he  should 
aim  and  strive  continually.  Let  us,  my  friends, 
now  obey  the  call,  —  "  Come  up  hither."  Let  us 
ascend  the  mount  of  clear  vision.  Let  us  view 
the  elements  of  our  earthly  lot,  as  they  would  be 
viewed  by  an  inhabitant  of  heaven. 

What,  then,  would  be  the  aspect  presented  by 
our  world  to  one  who,  from  a  lofty  eminence, 
could  take  it  in  at  a  single  glance  ?  It  would 
seem  to  him  an  eminently  happy  world,  full  of 
bountiful  provisions  for  the  enjoyment  of  its  liv- 
ing occupants.  He  would  sec  every  department 
of  nature  teeming  witli  glad  existences,  —  the  air 
and  the  ocean   deptlis,  the  pathless  forests  and 


COME    UP   niTIIER.  183 

sunless  caverns,  all  crowded  with  life  and  joy. 
Man  would  look  happy,  and  seem  higlily  favored. 
Rich  harvest-fields,  affluent  homes,  scenes  of  do- 
mestic love  and  social  enjoyment,  would  fill  tlie 
foreground  of  tlie  picture.  On  a  bright  autumnal 
Sabbath  like  this,  he  would  look  far  and  wide, 
and  see  men  everywhere  resting  in  plenty  from 
their  harvest-tasks,  and  going  up  with  their  fami- 
lies in  gladness  (would  to  Heaven  that  it  were  in 
equal  gratitude  !)  to  the  sanctuary  of  their  God. 
No  house  would  seem  without  its  special  bless- 
ings, —  its  joys  wherewith  the  stranger  meddleth 
not.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  he  would  see  some 
one  in  depression  or  suffering.  But  in  many  of 
these  cases,  he  would  find,  on  closer  inspection, 
that  habit  had  worn  off  tlie  sting  of  chronic  trou- 
bles,—  that  many  a  poor  man  was  rich  in  the 
unbought  blessings  of  health,  peace,  and  love, — 
that  many  a  sufferer  owned,  with  a  gratitude  too 
full  for  utterance,  the  tenderest  human  sympathy, 
tlie  light  of  a  heaven-born  faith,  and  the  daily  vis- 
itings  of  the  Saviour's  mercy.  Only  in  the  taber- 
nacles of  sin  would  he  behold  traces  of  forlorn 
misery  ;  and  even  there  he  would  see  that  God 
had  not  left  himself  without  a  witness,  but  that 
wayward  man  was  striving  with  infinite  love, 
darkening  his  own  dwelling,  purposely  shutting 
out  the  light  of  God's  countenance,  and,  with 
fiendish  art,  over  the  fire  of  guilty  passion  dis- 
tilling curses  from  what  God  had  ordained  for 
good. 


18-4  COME    UP    HITUER. 

But  the  C3'C  of  our  heavenly  witness  would  dis- 
cern some  homes  of  deep  affliction.  While  there 
was  liglit  and  gladness  all  around,  over  these 
dwellings  would  hang  a  thick  and  heavy  cloud. 
But  how  would  this  cloud  appear  to  him  ?  Big 
with  inundating  rains,  or  charged  with  the  angry 
thunderbolt  ?  0,  no  !  but  freighted  with  fertiliz- 
ing showers,  shed  in  due  season,  where  the  soil 
craved  them,  where  the  plants  of  God's  husbandry 
needed  them,  —  shed,  perhaps,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  sun  had  risen  with  a  withering 
heat,  and  the  germs  of  virtue  and  piety  were 
ready  to  perish.  Griefs  from  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence would  seem  to  him  to  drop  as  tlie  rain,  and 
distil  as  the  dew ;  and  often  would  he  see  them 
changing  the  wilderness  into  a  garden,  and  bring- 
ing up,  ''  instead  of  the  thorn,  the  fir-tree,  and 
instead  of  the  brier,  the  myrtle."  Often,  too, 
where  faith  and  patience  had  been  severely  dis- 
ciplined, and  the  field  seemed  to  human  eye  white 
for  the  harvest,  he  would  see  one  more  shower 
needed  before  the  reaper  put  in  his  sickle,  and 
bound  his  choice,  ripe  sheaves.  As  he  beheld 
worldliness  and  selfishness  purged  away,  and  the 
soil  of  man's  flinty  heart  thus  softened  and  fertil- 
ized by  sorrow,  his  eye  would  rest  with  a  solemn 
gladness  on  the  house  of  affliction,  as  best  show- 
ing forth  the  Father's  love,  and  he  would  say  with 
Jesus,  —  "  Blessed  are  they  tliat  mourn." 

But  he  who  thus  took  liis  point  of  view  from 


COME    UP    HITHER.  185 

heaYCii  T\'oiil(I  sco  not  cartlily  tilings  alouc.  IIo 
would  be  surrounded  by  celestial  beings  and  ob- 
jects, —  would  bo  let  into  the  counsels  of  the 
Almighty,  —  would  discern  the  harmonies  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth,  the  dispositions  with 
which  man  was  regarded  from  above,  the  treas- 
ures laid  up,  the  joys  reserved,  for  him  at  the 
right  hand  of  God.  And  what  would  ho  see  ? 
AVeak,  short-lived  man  constantly  recognized  in 
the  groat  plan  of  universal  Providence,  —  love, 
tender  care,  minute  watchfulness  over  every  hu- 
man soul,  on  the  part  of  Him  who  balances  the 
sun  and  speeds  the  stars  on  their  circuit.  He 
would  see  nature,  in  all  her  vastness  and  beauty, 
but  the  means,  man  the  end,  —  nature  but  the 
nurse  of  his  infancy,  her  laws  ordained,  her  har- 
monies attuned,  for  his  happiness  and  progress. 
Ho  would  see  all  the  happy  spirits  about  the 
throne  looking  upon  man  with  brotherly  interest 
and  sympathy,  ready  to  move  on  errands  of  love 
for  him,  rejoicing  in  every  prodigal's  return,  wel- 
coming to  the  shores  of  eternity  every  new  pil- 
grim. But  over  what  scenes  of  earth  would  ho 
discern  most  joy  in  heaven  ?  Would  it  bo  over 
scones  of  gladness,  where  the  song  and  the  hxugh 
rang  merrily,  over  unbroken  families,  over  man- 
sions of  luxury,  over  the  bright  eye,  the  buoyant 
step,  the  full  soul  ?  No.  He  would  see  angel 
visitants  most  frequent  and  most  happy  in  scenes 
of  sorrow,  where  the  stricken  spirit  was  learning 

16* 


186  COME    UP   HITHER. 

to  submit,  and  trust,  and  love,  —  where  tlie  plants 
of  heavenly  grace,  deej>rooted  in  well-watered 
furrows,  were  springing  up  into  everlasting  life. 
And  as  soul  after  soul  passed  through  this  ordeal 
with  firmer  faith  and  warmer  piety,  they  of  heav- 
en would  mark  such  spirits  as  of  their  own  line- 
age and  kindred,  saying,  —  "  These  are  they  that 
have  come  out  of  great  tribulation,  and  have 
washed  their  robes,  and  made  them  white  in 
the  blood  of  the  Lamb." 

He  who  thus  stood  in  the  assembly  above  would 
see  around  him  many  earth-born  angels,  trans- 
lated from  desolate  homes  below  to  their  Father's 
house.  He  would  behold  the  lost  and  wept  of 
human  families  enthroned  in  unfading  glory.  He 
would  marvel  at  the  grief  of  those  left  behind  ; 
for  how,  he  would  ask,  can  they  that  love  their 
friends  lament  so  hopelessly  their  entrance  upon 
unspeakable  joy  ?  Nor  would  he  appreciate  that 
sundering  of  the  bonds  of  kindred  and  intimacy, 
which  we  so  keenly  feel ;  for  he  would  see  that 
the  ransomed  spirit  forgot  not  the  house  of  clay 
and  the  companions  of  its  pilgrimage.  He  would 
see  the  love  of  kindred  and  friends  only  made 
purer  and  stronger  by  the  touch  of  death,  and  the 
redeemed  above  still  bound  by  indissoluble  tics 
as  one  family  with  those  below.  He  would  hear 
from  the  translated  infant  Avarm  intercessions  for 
sorrowing  parents, —  from  the  ransomed  mother 
the  prayer  of  an  unslumbcring  love,  that  her  or- 


COME    UP    HITHER.  187 

plian  little  ones  might  be  kept  from  the  snares  of 
sin,  and  safely  and  purely  led  home  to  her  em- 
brace. He  would  behold  the  dead  the  guardian 
angels  of  the  living,  deeming  it  more  than  heaven 
to  be  charged  with  ministries  of  mercy  to  the 
family  below,  —  to  inspire  sweet  dreams,  happy 
thoughts,  and  sustaining  hopes.  lie  would  see 
every  pious  house  overshadowed  by  the  seraph 
wings  of  those  who  had  been  trained  for  glory 
within  its  walls.  To  his  eye,  death  would  be 
swallowed  up  in  life,  the  walls  of  sense  would 
disappear,  and  heaven  and  earth  would  seem  the 
universal  house  of  God,  in  which  all  that  dwelt 
in  him  dwelt  also  in  one  another. 

Thus,  no  doubt,  does  it  seem  to  those  of  our 
innocent  and  pious  kindred  that  have  gone  before 
us.  Such  are  the  views  which  they  take  from 
the  walls  of  the  new  Jerusalem.  Nor  need  we 
wait  for  death,  in  order  to  take  these  views. 
Jesus,  through  the  parted  heavens,  says  to  us, 
—  "Come  up  hither."  My  afflicted  friends,  he 
bids  you  look  up  from  your  darkened  homes  to 
the  house  not  made  with  hands.  You  have,  in- 
deed, consigned  the  outward  forms,  which  were 
the  delight  of  your  eyes,  to  a  sleep  from  which 
there  is  no  awaking.  But  that  which  knew,  and 
loved,  and  hoped,  is  with  God,  not  a  bright  trait 
of  character  dimmed,  not  a  pure  desire  ungrati- 
fied,  not  a  bud  of  promise  blighted,  no  change 
passing  over  them  but  that  from  stage  to  stage 
of  progress  and  joy. 


188  COME    UP    HITHER. 

Some  of  you  mourn  those  taken  away  in  infan- 
cy, ere  the  blight  of  sin  or  grief  had  fallen  upon 
their  young  spirits.  Such  as  they  are  near  the 
Good  Shepherd's  heart.  Yield  them  up  to  him, 
my  friends,  as  trustingly  as  if  he  were  on  earth, 
and  asked  you  for  them,  and  proffered  them  his 
teaching  and  his  guidance.  How  gladly  would 
you  welcome  him,  were  he  here,  into  your  fam- 
ilies, and  carry  forth  your  little  ones  as  he  passed 
by  the  way,  that  his  shadow  might  rest  upon 
them,  and  that  his  words  of  love,  once  heard  and 
unforgotten,  might  sink  deep  into  their  hearts ! 
Were  he  gathering,  as  once  in  Galilee,  his  little 
company  of  faithful  followers,  and  did  he  enter 
your  homes,  and  say  of  those  that  cluster  around 
your  family  altars,  —  "  Suffer  them  to  come  un- 
to me,"  —  could  you  keep  them  back?  Would 
you  not  thankfully  surrender  them  to  his  care, 
and  let  him  guide  and  bless  them  in  his  own  way, 
and  in  his  own  unceasing  presence  ?  He  has 
done  yet  more  for  those  who  have  been  gathered 
into  his  heavenly  flock.  He  has  taught  them  to 
bear  part  in  the  anthem  of  the  redeemed.  He 
has  filled  their  minds  with  truth  and  their  hearts 
with  love.  He  has  led  them  in  the  spotless  robe 
of  infancy  to  the  God  that  gave  them,  and  thqy 
are  without  fault  before  his  throne.  If  you  love 
them,  will  you  not  rejoice  for  them  ?  Would  you 
crave  them  back,  yet  more  to  suffer  and  again  to 
die,  —  perhaps  still  worse,  to  be  living  and  yet 


COME  ur  HITHER.  189 

dead,  to  stumble  into  tlic  pitfalls  of  sin,  and  at 
length  to  carry  to  the  judgment-seat,  marred  and 
blackened,  those  spirits  which  they  have  now  ren- 
dered back  pure  as  they  came  into  being  ? 

My  Christian  friends,  it  is  not  only  to  those 
that  wear  the  weeds  of  recent  sorrow  that  it  has 
been  said,  — ''  Come  up  hither."  The  invitation 
comes  to  us  equally  in  our  brightest  and  happiest 
days.  As  disciples  of  Christ,  our  true  dwelling- 
place  is  with  him  before  the  throne.  It  is  only 
as  our  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God,  that  we 
spiritually  live.  If  we  are  truly  his,  our  heaven 
wall  be  literally  begun  here,  —  not,  indeed,  the 
heaven  of  outward  circumstance,  but  the  heaven 
of  the  soul,  that  of  unruffled  peace,  joy  in  God, 
calm  submission,  and  implicit  trust.  We  shall 
walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight.  We  shall  dwell 
in  God,  the  centre  of  all  harmonies ;  and  then 
the  course  of  earthly  events  will  not  seem  to  us 
irregular  and  fragmentary,  but  we  shall  trace 
through  all  its  hidings  and  its  windings  the  plan 
of  inlinite  mercy,  —  nature  and  Providence,  joy 
and  sorrow,  life  and  death,  all  will  be  to  us  "  the 
varied  God."  Storms  may,  indeed,  come ;  but 
we  shall  be  above  them,  and,  as  from  the  pavil- 
ion of  the  Most  High,  we  shall  see  the  lightnings 
flash  and  hear  the  thunders  roll  beneath  us. 

Brethren,  we  need  this  heavenly  frame  of  mind, 
this  lofty  i)oint  of  view,  not  only  with  reference 
to  the  severer  trials  of  life,  but  no  less  for  our 


190  COME    UP    HITHER. 

daily  conflicts  with  tlio  lust  of  power,  gain,  or 
pleasure,  with  petty  temptations,  with  easily  be- 
setting sins.  We  need,  above  the  mists  of  earth, 
above  the  false  beacon-fires  of  policy  or  selfish- 
ness, a  position  from  which  we  can  survey  the 
path  of  life  with  a  calm,  unbiased  eye.  We  need 
a  stand-point  from  which  we  can  view  duty  as 
God  views  it,  and  as  we  shall  be  content  to  have 
viewed  it  when  life's  last  sands  are  running. 
Satan  perpetually  plants  himself  in  our  way  with 
an  angel's  stolen  garment ;  and  nothing  can  de- 
liver us  from  his  wiles  but  our  diligent  heed  to 
the  great  voice  from  heaven,  saying  to  us, — 
"  Come  up  hither."  This  voice,  if  we  hear  it  in 
our  days  of  joy,  will  reach  us  in  sorrow  and  be- 
reavement ;  and  God  will  call  us  up  into  the  ark 
prepared  for  his  chosen  ones,  when  the  storm  is 
abroad,  and  the  floods  lift  up  their  voice. 

While  here,  we  must,  indeed,  lead  a  divided 
life,  bearing  the  image  both  of  the  earthly  and 
the  heavenly.  The  spirit  will  sometimes  be  will- 
ing, but  the  flesh  weak.  Sight  will  sometimes 
get  the  better  of  faith,  and  we  shall  then  remain 
in  the  valley,  instead  of  climbing  the  mount  of 
God.  At  times  our  horizon  will  seem  all  shut  in. 
^lysteries,  deep  and  unfathomable,  will  hang  over 
the  course  of  Providence.  Our  way  will  lie 
through  gathering  clouds.  But  in  death  will  the 
great  voice  from  heaven  say  to  us,  once  and  for 
ever,  —  "  Come  up  hither  "  ;  and  with  angels  and 


COME    UP    HITHER.  191 

ransomed  men,  with  patriarchs,  prophets,  and 
apostles,  with  our  sainted  parents,  our  bosom 
friends,  and  the  lambs  without  spot  or  blemish, 
translated  from  our  flocks  to  the  service  of  the 
heavenly  altar,  we  shall  stand  on  the  sea  of  glass, 
liaving  the  harps  of  God,  and  chanting  the  praises 
of  Him  who  hath  abolished  death,  and  brought 
life  and  immortality  to  light. 


SERMON    XY. 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

THEN  I  LOOKED  ON  ALL  THE  WORKS  THAT  MY  HANDS  HAD 
WROUGHT,  AND  ON  THE  LABOR  THAT  I  HAD  LABOHED  TO 
DO  ;  AND,  BEHOLD,  ALL  WAS  VANITY  AND  VEXATION  OP 
SPIRIT,    AND    THERE    WAS    NO    PROFIT    UNDER    THE    SUN. — 

Ecclesiastes  ii.  11. 

I  KNOW  of  no  more  genuine  record  of  human 
experience  than  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes  affords. 
It  is  testimony  wrung  from  the  heart  of  one  who 
had  tried  the  whole  round  of  earthly  pursuits 
and  pleasures,  who  had  fathomed  the  resources  of 
knowledge  and  fame,  wealth  and  power,  the  feast 
and  the  dance,  laughter  and  mirth,  lust  and  wine, 
and  who  sums  up  the  whole  as  mere  vanity  and 
vexation  of  spirit.  The  author  professes  to  have 
reached  the  decline  of  a  life  of  pre-eminent  lus- 
tre, luxury,  and  prosperity ;  and  yet  there  was  in 
the  retrospect  nothing  on  which  his  eye  could  re- 
pose with  satisfaction,  —  nothing  that  had  filled 
his  soul,  or  left  a  fragrance  behind.  He  pro- 
nounces the  dead  far  happier  than  the  living,  and 
those  who  died  before  they  had  tasted  the  cup  of 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE.  193 

life  the  liappicst  of  all ;  and  yet  to  him  death 
is  an  endless  sleep,  the  dnst  mingling  with  kin- 
dred dust,  the  soul  reabsorbed  into  the  divine 
essence  from  which  it  came.  Far  be  it  from  me, 
thougli  I  now  come  to  you  in  sadness,  to  present 
such  dark  views  of  life.  In  such  views  no  Clu'is- 
tian  can  rest.  To  every  believing  heart  Jesus 
repeats  the  primeval  blessing  of  the  Almighty 
on  the  works  of  his  hands ;  and  still,  as  in  the 
morning  of  creation,  all  things  are  very  good. 
Yet  the  view  of  life  which  our  text  suggests 
must  have  distinctly  presented  itself  to  every 
one  who  has  borne  the  burdens  and  bowed  un- 
der the  sorrows  of  mortality ;  and  it  is  the  only 
view  which  remains  possible  'for  one  destitute 
of  Christian  faith,  —  it  represents  the  true  state 
of  things  with  one  who  is  living  without  God 
and  without  hope  in  the  world.  In  order  for 
the  worldly  and  self-indulgent  to  arrive  at  this 
view,  it  is  only  needful  for  them  to  pause  and 
reflect.  And  I  would  that  they  oftener  reached 
it ;  for  if  they  did,  they  would  not  rest  till  they 
had  come  to  Jesus,  and  learned  of  him.  Let  us 
now  consider  the  vanity  of  the  present  state  of 
being,  considered  as  our  only  state. 

Suppose,  in  the  first  place,  that  a  decree  were 
to  go  forth,  perpetuating  your  present  condition, 
—  pronouncing  that  you  should  remain  eternally 
just  as  you  are  now.  How  would  you  receive 
such  a  decree  ?    There  are,  indeed,  many  of  you 

17 


194  THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

who  sGcm  liappy,  prosperous,  rich,  surrounded 
by  favoraMo  circumstances.  But  is  there  one  of 
YOU  wlio  would  be  willing  to  stop  the  wheel  of 
fortune  now  and  for  ever  ?  Should  this  take 
place,  everything  would  seem  to  you  dark,  nar- 
row, insufficient,  and  unpropitious.  Where  is 
the  man  who  has  climbed  as  high,  or  won  as 
much,  or  established  himself  as  firmly,  as  he 
means  and  desires  ?  AVhere  is  the  soul  that  has 
not  still  in  embryo  some  darling  plan  which  it 
would  be  misery  to  drop  ?  Where  is  the  fam- 
ily which  lives  not  to  a  greater  or  less  degree 
broken  by  the  absence  or  death  of  its  members, 
and  which  depends  not  for  much  of  its  comfort 
and  joy  on  the  return  of  the  long  absent,  or  re- 
union with  the  holy  dead  ?  Who  would  be  will- 
ing that  the  divided  family  should  remain  so  for 
ever  ?  If  you  will  look  into  your  own  hearts, 
my  friends,  you  will  find  that  you  are  living 
more  in  the  future  than  in  the  present,  more 
in  your  plans  than  in  your  possessions,  —  that 
you  depend  more  on  what  you  think  that  you  are 
laying  up  for  time  to  come,  than  on  any  means 
of  enjoyment  actually  in  hand.  What,  then, 
have  you  attained  as  to  this  world  ?  Flowers 
without  fruit,  golden  promises,  flattering  hopes,  a 
rich  expectancy  of  happiness  ;  but  could  you  see 
nothing  beyond  the  passing  moment,  you  would 
at  once  pronounce  all  to  bo  vanity  and  vexation 
of  si)irit,   and   would   exclaim   in   bitterness, — 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE.  195 

"  What  have  I  of  all  the  works  that  my  liands 
have  wrought,  and  of  all  the  labor  that  I  have 
labored  to  do  ?  '* 

But  what  will  this  future  on  whicli  you  are 
building  bring  to  you  ?  Incompleteness,  vexa- 
tion, disappointment,  bereavement,  sorrow.  Few 
of  your  blossoms  will  ripen  into  fruit ;  few  of 
your  plans  will  be  realized  ;  very  little  of  what 
you  now  clearly  see  in  tlie  future  will  sliape  itself 
as  you  see  it.  Many  of  the  visions  that  now  be- 
guile you  will  pass  away  as  a  dream.  Never  will 
come  the  time  upon  earth  when  you  will  say,  — 
"I  have  attained,  —  I  am  ready  to  enjoy,  —  now 
let  the  wheel  stop  rolling,  and  I  will  be  content." 
The  farther  you  go  on  in  life,  the  more  blighted 
hopes  will  lie  behind  you,  the  more  vacant  places 
will  there  be  in  the  circle  of  your  kindred  and 
friendship,  the  more  will  there  be  in  your  outward 
condition  to  make  you  feel  that  there  is  no  rest 
or  home  for  you  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  But 
you  will  still  toil  and  strive  on,  till  age  creeps 
upon  you ;  and  then  you  may,  perhaps,  seat  your- 
self down  to  the  calm  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of 
your  labors.  But  if  you  then  look  within  and 
around  you,  what  will  you  find  your  condition  to 
be  ?  You  will  see  the  instruments  of  enjoyment 
fled,  when  its  means  are  at  length  attained. 
Your  perceptions  will  be  languid,  your  elastici- 
ty of  spirit  gone,  your  taste  for  every  form  and 
object  of  luxury  paralyzed.      Those  with  whom 


196  TUE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

you  had  hoped  to  walk  in  the  quiet  of  hfe's  even- 
ing will  have  departed  hence,  no  more  to  be  seen 
on  earth.  The  children  whom  you  had  thought  to 
see  clustering  like  tendrils,  fresh  and  green,  about 
the  aged  vine,  will  be  either  scattered  abroad  in 
the  world,  surrounded  Avith  cares  and  hopes  of 
their  own,  or  numbered  among  the  early  dead. 
And  in  looking  back  from  the  close  of  the  most 
prosperous  life,  you  will  find  that  your  wholo 
course  might  be  likened  to  the  drawing  of  water 
in  a  vessel  full  of  holes  and  pouring  it  into  a 
broken  cistern,  —  that,  of  the  results  of  all  your 
labor  and  sore  travail  upon  earth,  you  will  have 
lost  most  by  the  way,  and  kept  none  to  the  end. 

Again,  if  you  would  look  into  your  hearts,  in 
the  gayest  and  most  gladsome  moments  of  earthly 
enjoyment,  you  will  perceive  much  of  this  same 
emptiness  and  vanity.  Who  has  not  at  such 
times  been  conscious,  as  it  were,  of  a  double 
self,  of  an  uneasiness  in  the  midst  of  gratifica- 
tion, of  a  restless  feeling  in  the  very  fulness  of 
seeming  joy,  of  a  voice  that  whispers,  "  Up  and 
be  doing,"  while  many  voices  bid  us  stay,  and 
drown  all  other  thoughts  in  the  scene  before  us  ? 
When,  except  in  early  youth,  have  we  found  the 
time  when  we  coidd  throw  ourselves  wholly  into 
any  such  scene,  and  say  with  an  undivided  heart, 
—  "  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here  "  ?  It  seems  to 
me  that  there  is  no  season  when  melancholy  is 
more  apt  to  steal  over  us,  and  the  feeling  that 


THE    VANITY    OP   LIFE.  197 

all  is  vanity  to  rise  up  within  us,  than  when  gay- 
voices  arc  around  us,  and  the  insignia  of  mirtli 
are  spread  before  us.  The  mind  cannot  help 
turning  to  that  reverse  of  the  picture,  so  near 
to  some,  so  sure  to  all,  when  sorrow  will  darken 
the  happy  dwelling,  —  when  that  head  so  full  of 
glad  thoughts  will  toss  upon  the  fevered  couch, 
—  when  that  heart  throbbing  so  quick  with 
young  hopes  will  beat  slow  and  sad  its  passage 
to  the  grave,  —  when,  instead  of  the  song  and 
the  dance,  will  be  the  coffin  and  the  dirge. 

But  though  at  these  seasons  such  thoughts  will 
come  over  us,  we  crowd  them  out.  There  are, 
however,  times  when  they  are  forced  upon  us, 
and  we  cannot  expel  them.  There  are  times  of 
sudden  and  overwhelming  grief,  when  calamity 
breaks  in  upon  us  like  a  swift  flood,  and  seems  to 
wash  away  the  very  ground  on  which  we  stand. 
As,  amazed  and  dizzy,  we  witness  the  withering 
in  an  hour  of  that  on  which  we  had  reposed  the 
trust  of  many  years,  as  we  bend  over  the  lifeless 
forms  of  one  after  another  of  those  with  whom 
every  fibre  of  our  own  being  was  bound  up,  we 
feci  that  there  is  nothing  permanent  or  trust- 
worthy here,  —  that  at  our  best  estate  we  are  al- 
together vanity,  —  that  earth's  fairest  mansions 
are  but  wliited  sepulchres,  her  choicest  fruit  but 
dust  and  ashes.  We  are  then  conscious  of  the 
frailty  of  what  remains  to  us,  no  less  than  of 
what  has  been  taken  from  us,  and  can  say  from 

17* 


198  THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

the  heart,  that  there  is  nothing  here  below  on 
which  we  can  place  the  least  dependence,  — 
notliing  which  we  dare  to  love  as  we  have 
loved,  or  to  trnst  as  we  have  trusted.  Then, 
were  it  not  for  the  words  of  eternal  life,  we 
could  say  in  intense  anguish,  — ''  All  is  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit,  and  there  is  no  profit 
under  the  sun." 

But  after  all,  though  we  walk  in  a  vain  show, 
there  is  enjoyment  in  life,  —  in  our  mere  earthly 
life.  Yet  from  what  docs  it  flow  ?  Not  from  the 
ever-changing  scene,  not  from  the  winter-frozen 
and  summer-dried  fountains  around  us,  but  from 
the  unchanging  love  of  God,  the  bow  of  whose 
promise  remains  fixed  over  the  stream  of  time 
and  the  waves  of  unceasing  vicissitude.  Not  by 
these  time-shadows,  but  by  their  eternal  sub- 
stance, by  the  immutable  I  am,  are  we  blessed ; 
and  the  bright  gleams  from  the  current  of  earthly 
events,  that  make  us  glad,  are  but  the  reflection 
of  his  smile.  He  who  gives  the  ravens  their  food 
feeds  also  his  human  children,  and  by  filling  all 
things  with  his  love  makes  us  happy.  We  ask 
why  we  are  glad.  We  analyze  life  and  its  re- 
sources, and  can  find  no  reason  for  our  happi- 
ness. All  seems  so  unsubstantial  and  evanes- 
cent, we  wonder  that  we  should  ever  have  felt 
an  emotion  of  joy  ;  and  all  the  while,  it  may 
be,  we  forget  to  look  to  Him  who  alone  has 
made  us  happy,  —  whose  ever-flowing  love  has 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE.  199 

imparted  a  continuity  to  change,  has  breathed 
life  into  a  world  of  death,  has  made  tilings  in 
themselves  vain  —  yea,  and  things  which  are 
not  —  the  sources  of  enduring  good.  But  if 
this  be  so,  then  is  God  our  chief  good  and  our 
highest  joy,  and  in  proportion  as  we  approach 
liim  do  we  quit  the  vain  for  the  real,  the  shadow 
for  the  substance. 

And,  blessed  be  God,  there  is  that  in  life  which 
is  not  vanity  or  vexation.  Thougli  favor  be  de- 
ceitful and  beauty  vain,  though  the  grass  wither 
and  the  flower  fade,  the  word  of  God  abideth 
for  ever,  —  even  that  word  Avliich  in  Jesus  was 
made  flesh,  and  which  is  anew  incarnate  in  every 
regenerate  heart.  The  outer  man  may  perish, 
the  desire  of  the  eyes  and  the  pride  of  life  may 
fail ;  but  tlie  signature  of  God's  spirit  on  the  in- 
ner man  time  cannot  efface,  or  the  waves  of  death 
wash  away.  The  soul,  character,  virtue,  piety, 
remain,  amidst  the  reverses  of  fortune,  the  deso- 
lation of  our  households,  the  wasting  of  disease, 
and  the  thunder-blast  of  death.  And  if  on  the 
theatre  of  life  the  soul  may  clothe  herself  in  gar- 
ments of  righteousness  that  shall  never  wax  old, 
then  is  life  precious  and  holy  and  full  of  dignity  ; 
and  if,  from  the  wreck  of  all  things  earthly,  the 
soul  may  gather  the  trophies  of  a  purer  faith  and 
a  more  fervent  love,  then  may  we  bid  a  welcome, 
—  solemn  and  tearful  though  it  be,  —  a  welcome 
to  the  storms  and  billows  of  adversity,  believing 


200  THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

that  they  can  work  only  for  onr  progress  and  our 
highest  good. 

There  liavo,  I  trust,  my  friends,  been  seasons 
of  your  hves,  when,  had  you  analyzed  what  made 
you  blessed,  you  would  have  found  it  not  vanity, 
but  a  holy  and  eternal  reality.  You  have,  it  may 
be,  at  some  time  encountered  strong  temptation. 
Sin  was  near.  Opportunity  favored.  The  tempt- 
er whispered,  — "  Tliou  slialt  not  surely  die." 
Passion  or  appetite  earnestly  craved  the  guilty 
compliance,  and  you  felt  your  faith  Avavering. 
But  you  summoned  God  to  your  help.  You  arose 
in  the  majesty  of  inward  might,  and  said, — 
"  Tempter,  depart ;  Father,  I  am  thine."  You 
came  off  conqueror,  and  beheld  Satan,  like  light- 
iiing,  falling  from  the  heavens.  This  victory  has 
not  ceased  to  make  you  happy.  There  was  no  de- 
lusion in  the  joy  of  such  an  hour.  It  will  bear 
the  closest  scrutiny.  It  was  a  joy  which  earth 
could  not  have  given,  and  which  time  cannot  take 
away.  You  feel  that  your  soul  grew  in  this  con- 
flict, —  that  you  took  a  new  onward  step  in  your 
eternal  career,  —  tliat  you  gained  treasure  that 
will  endure  while  God  lives. 

You  have  gone  forth,  it  may  be,  at  some  time, 
on  an  errand  of  love,  alone,  without  sympathy, 
without  sounding  a  trumpet  before  you,  in  -the 
spirit  of  true  Christian  benevolence.  You  were 
made  a  blessing  to  some  desolate  and  forsaken 
one.      Your  compassion  dropped  as  the  dew  of 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE.  201 

heaven  upon  some  withered  spirit.  You  were 
eyes  to  the  blind,  or  as  a  father  to  the  poor.  Yon 
were  made  the  minister  of  liope  to  the  despair- 
ing or  of  life  to  the  spiritually  dead.  Years  may 
have  rolled  by,  and  there  perhaps  remains  not  an 
cartldy  sign  of  the  good  that  you  wrought ;  and 
yet  you  feel  that  it  has  not  passed  away,  —  that 
it  could  not  perish,  —  that,  though  no  longer  seen, 
it  is  eternal.  That  outgoing  of  the  soul  towards 
a  fellow-being,  that  lengthening  of  the  chain  of 
sympathy,  that  development  of  godlike  love,  is  a 
good  which  time  cannot  take  from  you,  or  im- 
mortality exhaust. 

Again,  you  have  been  in  deep  affliction.  It  was 
at  the  tenderest  point  that  the  arrow  of  a  mys- 
terious Providence  pierced  your  soul.  It  was 
where  you  most  hoped  and  expected  to  be  spared, 
that  God's  hand  was  heaviest  upon  you.  Yet  you 
had  faith  to  look  up  through  the  clouds  and  dark- 
ness, and  to  say  in  full  sincerity,  — ''  Father,  thy 
will  be  done  !  "  You  brought  the  sacrifice  to  the 
altar,  with  a  consenting,  though  bursting  heart, 
saying,  —  "Lord,  here  thou  hast  that  is  thine." 
That  act  of  faith  has  not  passed  away.  It  remains 
the  indestructible  property  of  your  soul.  You 
believed  in  God,  and  he  counted  it  for  righteous- 
ness. It  stands  recorded  in  his  book  of  eternal 
remembrance,  —  it  stands  indelibly  engraven  on 
the  tablets  of  your  own  heart.  The  sorrow  can 
endure  but  for  a  season,  perhaps  has  already  given 


202  THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

place  to  brighter  skies  ;  but  the  trust  in  God, 
which,  when  your  soul  was  dark,  filled  it  with 
submission  and  praise,  is  still  the  strength  of  your 
heart,  and  will  be  your  portion  for  ever. 

None  of  the  soul's  religious  exercises  are  lost. 
Your  penitence,  your  seeking  after  God,  your 
prayers  of  faith,  your  labors  of  love,  you  cannot 
look  upon  as  vanity.  In  contemplating  duty 
wrought,  temptation  resisted,  sin  subdued,  you 
feel  no  vexation  of  spirit.  In  looking  at  the  re- 
sults of  your  religious  culture,  you  have  no  dis- 
position to  say,  —  "  There  is  no  profit  under  the 
sun." 

These  thoughts  open  to  us  the  true  value  of 
life,  and  show  us  wherein  the  author  of  our  text 
looked  upon  it  from  a  false  point  of  view.  He 
thought  of  it  as  a  final  home,  —  as  an  end,  not  a 
means,  —  as  the  sum,  not  the  cradle,  of  man's 
being.  He  deemed  the  supreme  purpose  of  ex- 
istence to  be  the  attainment  of  the  highest  point 
of  worldly  joy  and  greatness,  and  no  wonder  that 
he  found  all  to  be  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit ; 
for  he  sought  full  satisfaction  for  the  immortal  in 
the  perisliing,  for  the  unseen  spirit  in  things  seen. 
We,  as  Christians,  regard  the  present  state  less  as 
life  than  as  a  passage  from  death  to  life.  We  take 
the  good  things  of  earth  as  types  and  pledges  of 
unseen  and  satisfying  joys,  as  the  revelation  of 
God  and  the  earnest  of  heaven.  We  look  to 
earthly  pleasures,  not  as  the  end  of  our  being,  but 


THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE.  203 

as  refreshments  on  our  pilgrim  way.  Wc  receive 
and  enjoy  them  with  gratitude,  yet  dare  not  trust 
them,  or  set  our  hearts  upon  them.  We  sec  the 
sentence  of  change  and  death  written  upon  them, 
nor  would  we  liavc  it  otherwise  ;  for  we  ourselves 
desire  to  be  changed,  and  we  would  have  changes 
going  on  around  us,  to  keep  us  on  the  alert,  and 
to  have  our  spirits  disenthralled  when  our  own 
change  shall  come. 

But  wliile  there  is  nothing  in  these  views  to 
embitter  life,  how  much  is  there  in  them  to  make 
us  look  forward  to  death  with  composure  and 
cheerfulness !  We  speak,  indeed,  of  being  at- 
tached to  the  world,  of  clinging  to  life ;  but  this 
is  entirely  indefinite  language.  The  world  about 
us,  the  complexion  of  life,  is  continually  changing. 
Those  aspects  of  nature  which  most  charm  us  pass 
away  almost  as  soon  as  they  appear.  In  our 
earthly  lot,  how  often  does  the  day  give  no  token 
of  what  shall  be  on  the  morrow !  —  how  seldom 
do  the  elements  of  our  domestic  and  social  life 
remain  unchanged  from  year  to  year !  New  faces 
surround  us,  new  intimacies  encircle  us,  new  ca- 
reers of  effort  call  us  away  from  the  old.  Our 
parents  are  gathered  to  their  fathers.  Our  chil- 
dren follow  them.  Our  earthly  house  is  dissolved. 
There  is  silence  where  there  were  glad  voices, — 
desolation,  where  there  was  thrilling  joy.  Our 
life  becomes  a  bundle  of  broken  fibres,  —  our 
conditiou  on  earth  constantly  grows  more  iiidcfi- 


204  THE    VANITY    OF    LIFE. 

nite  and  fragmentary.  Still  we  adhere  to  this 
idea  of  life,  as  if  it  were  something  fixed  and 
tangible.  The  truth  is  (and  it  is  a  truth  that 
should  call  forth  an  unceasing  flow  of  gratitude), 
that  one  and  the  same  God  lives  in  all  this  change, 
and  through  a  vast  diversity  of  operations  con- 
ducts the  same  work  of  love,  so  that  what  is  defi- 
nite and  permanent  is  not  life,  but  the  God  of 
our  lives.  These  constantly  varying  forms,  in 
which  God  blesses  us,  are  but  so  many  ways  in 
which  he  seeks  to  make  himself  known  to  us,  and 
solicits  our  trust  and  love.  It  is  not,  then,  to  life, 
but  to  God,  that  we  should  cling,  and  thus  seek 
the  true  life,  which  waits  for  its  consummation, 
till  the  corruptible  shall  clothe  itself  in  incorrup- 
tion,  and  the  mortal  shall  put  on  immortality. 


SERMON    XYI 


THE  LIFE   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 

THOUGH    I    UNDERSTAND    ALL    MYSTERIES,    AND    ALL    KNOWP 
EDGE,  AND   HAVE  NOT    CHARITY,    I  AM  NOTHING. 1    Corill* 

tliians  xiii.  2. 

In  choosing  this  passage  for  a  text,  I  can  hardly 
need  tell  you  that  charity  here  denotes  not  mere 
almsgiving  or  mere  kindness  of  heart,  but  that 
expansive,  comprehensive  love  which  embraces 
God  and  every  child  of  God. 

Ours  is  an  age  of  great  intellectual  activity. 
Mental  attahiments,  skill,  power,  and  achieve- 
ments were  never  estimated  so  highly  as  now. 
In  former  times,  and  under  different  degrees  of 
culture,  first,  mere  pliysical  strength,  then,  the 
mere  accident  of  birth  or  hereditary  rank,  then, 
and  almost  till  now,  wealth,  have  successively 
been  the  measures  of  greatness,  and  the  prime 
objects  of  ambition,  desire,  and  eiivy.  But  now 
the  aristocracy  of  the  world  is  an  aristocracy  of 
intellect.      The   gifts   of  mind   are   everywhere 

18 


206  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

deemed  the  best  gifts.  Every  one  wishes  to  be 
known  as  a  person  of  large,  or  sound,  or  well- 
furnished  intellect,  and  the  reproach  of  ignorance 
or  folly  is  dreaded  as  the  deepest  possible  stignia. 
Now  this  state  of  things  is  to  be  rejoiced  in  as 
beyond  measure  better  than  that  in  which  mere 
external  advantages  were  the  supreme  objects  of 
esteem  and  desire.  We  are  right  in  looking  down, 
as  from  a  superior  point  of  view,  upon  times  when 
strength,  or  rank,  or  wealth,  was  worshipped  for 
its  own  sake.  But  there  is  danger,  that,  while 
we  look  down,  we  fail  to  look  up,  —  that,  while 
we  rejoice  in  having  found  something  better  than 
men  used  to  seek  and  strive  for,  we  may  not  rec- 
ognize that  which  alone  is  supremely  good.  Re- 
ligion is  the  life  of  the  affections ;  and,  in  the 
reverence  now  paid  to  intellect,  there  is  danger 
that  religion  be  undervalued,  and  that  the  affec- 
tions, which  are  its  throne,  receive  much  less  than 
their  due  regard  and  cultivation.  I  fear  that  re- 
ligious institutions  and  observances  are  looked 
upon  with  a  great  degree  of  superciliousness  and 
indifference  by  many  who  think  that  they  are 
seeking  the  best  gifts.  I  apprehend  that  many 
young  people,  now  pressing  forward  into  life,  re- 
gard it  as  the  sole  aim  and  end  of  being  to  obtain 
intellectual  cliaractcr,  reputation,  and  influence, 
to  be  wise  and  prudent,  and  to  leave  the  impress 
of  their  own  minds,  according  to  their  measure, 
on  the  few  or  the  many,  on  their  community, 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  207 

their  country,  or  tlicir  race.  I  sec  many  3'oiitli 
of  promise,  just  entering  upon  active  life,  who 
cherish  generous  and  lofty  sentiments,  are  raised 
above  all  mean  or  degrading  tastes,  and  intend 
to  act  their  part  well  and  nobly,  who  yet  evi- 
dently do  not  take  a  religious  character  and  in- 
fluence into  their  plan  of  life,  or  look  forward 
to  a  place  in  the  Church  of  Christ  as  an  essential 
post  of  duty,  or  anticipate  the  blessing  of  the 
fatherless  and  the  widow  among  their  crowns  of 
rejoicing.  My  present  object  is  to  set  before  you 
the  religious  life,  the  life  of  the  affections,  the 
life  of  God  in  the  soul  and  of  the  soul  in  God, 
as  the  highest  and  most  desirable  style  of  char- 
acter. 

Permit  me,  at  the  outset,  to  define  the  religious 
life.  I  mean  by  it  a  life,  not  of  mere  decencies 
and  proprieties,  but  of  warm  and  active  love.  It 
includes,  first,  the  habitual  and  thankful  recog- 
nition of  a  present  God  and  a  watchful  Provi- 
dence, and  the  exercise  of  the  religious  affections 
in  prayer,  praise,  and  grateful  obedience,  —  then 
and  thence,  the  cherishing  of  sincere  brotherly 
love  towards  our  fellow-men,  the  cultivation  of 
meekness,  gentleness,  and  kindness  towards  all, 
and  a  cordial  interest  in  every  cause  of  human 
progress  and  well-being.  In  fme,  the  religious 
life  implies  a  heart  which  constantly  breathes  for 
itself  and  for  all  men  the  prayer,  —  "Thy  king- 
dom come."     And  it  is  this  which  I  would  now 


208  THE   LIFE    OF    THE  AFFECTIONS. 

set  forth  as  of  incomparably  greater  worth  than 
a  merely  intellectual  life,  and  as  alone  giving  the 
patent  of  true  nobility  to  a  mind,  however  large, 
active,  and  powerful. 

I  first  remark,  that  the  life  of  the  affections  is 
essential  to  the  full  development  and  healthy 
working  of  the  intellect.  The  affections  are  our 
highest  faculties.  They  have  the  nearest  view  of 
truth,  and  the  strongest  hold  upon  it,  often  by 
direct  intuition  apprehending  portions  of  it,  to 
which  reason  and  judgment  must  work  a  weary 
way  of  analysis  and  proof.  Of  the  men  who  have 
enlarged  the  bounds  of  human  knowledge,  and 
have  essentially  connected  their  names  with  the 
progress  of  the  race,  there  has  been  hardly  one 
whose  mind  was  not  trained  by  religious  faith 
and  reverence.  By  this  you  will  not  under- 
stand me  as  saying  that  no  great  men  have  been 
imbelievers  or  irreligious.  Far  from  it.  There 
have  been  many  men  void  of  religious  belief  and 
principle,  who  have  been  brilliant,  profound, 
learned,  eloquent,  —  who  have  left  great  names 
and  a  luminous  track  where  they  disappeared. 
But  what  I  mean  to  say  is  this.  Prepare  as 
complete  a  list  as  you  can  of  the  various  depart- 
ments of  human  knowledge,  —  take  up  those  de- 
joartments  one  by  one,  and  call  over  in  each  the 
creative  minds,  —  those  that  have  given  to  each 
its  existence  and  its  laws,  —  those  whose  labors 
were  you  to  cx])unge  from  their  respective  dc- 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE  AFFECTIONS.  209 

partmcnts,  you  must  tear  out  largo  and  solid  por- 
tions from  the  learning  and  science  of  a  race, — 
you  will  find  that  the  men  on  this  catalogue  have, 
with  hardly  an  exception,  had  their  minds  nur- 
tured and  strengthened  by  the  religious  affections, 
—  that  they  have  revered  and  worshipped  God, 
have  felt  and  owned  the  power  of  Christian  truth, 
and  have  often  been  warm,  generous,  and  devot- 
ed philanthropists.  Diligent  study  of  the  history 
of  science  for  the  purpose  of  testing  this  view  has 
given  me  a  conviction  which  has  no  room  to  grow 
stronger,  that  there  exists  an  essential  connection 
of  cause  and  effect  between  the  life  of  the  heart 
and  that  of  the  mind,  and  that  the  highest  walks 
of  intellectual  greatness  cannot  be  reached  with- 
out the  keenness,  breadth,  and  loftiness  of  vision, 
and  the  great  fundamental  ideas  and  principles, 
which  religious  belief  and  consciousness  alone 
can  supply. 

You  and  I,  indeed,  may  not  aspire  to  the  first 
rank  of  intellectual  eminence.  But  if  we  desire 
to  fill  respectably  and  usefully  an  humbler  place, 
it  is  well  that  we  know  how  great  minds  have 
become  great ;  for  by  the  same  instrumentality 
smaller  minds  may  be  enlarged  and  elevated. 
And,  in  truth,  there  are  many  minds  that  need 
moral  culture  alone  in  order  to  make  themselves 
extensively  felt  and  highly  respected.  There  are 
many  men  who  exert  no  intellectual  influence, 
simply  because  they  have  no  moral  power.    They 

18* 


210  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

arc  keen,  shrewd,  well-informed,  of  sound  discre- 
tion, of  admirable  executive  capacity  ;  and  yet 
3^011  cannot  render  them  the  confidence  or  defer- 
ence that  they  seem  to  claim,  simply  because  their 
views  are  all  sordid,  narrow,  and  selfish.  They 
are  never  stirred  by  fresh  and  generous  impulses. 
There  always  hangs  about  them  a  sceptical,  dis- 
trustful atmosphere,  which  makes  their  presence 
like  a  very  iceberg  to  the  hopeful,  earnest,  and 
sanguine.  But  give  them  faith  in  God  and  man, 
—  thaw  out  the  ice  around  their  hearts,  —  once 
start  in  their  soids  the  flow  of  devout  and  chari- 
table feeling,  and  their  minds  would  grow  apace, 
would  acquire  new  depth  and  largeness  of  view 
on  every  class  of  subjects,  and  would  be  felt  and 
owned  as  leading  and  controlling  minds  in  their 
respective  circles.  Their  influence,  too,  would  in 
that  case  be  worthy  of  being  confided  and  re- 
joiced in ;  for  they  would  then  recognize  in  all 
their  reasonings  and  decisions  those  foundation- 
truths  in  the  moral  universe  which  they  now 
ignore,  but  which,  from  the  very  necessity  of  the 
case,  must  lie  at  the  basis  of  all  practical  wisdom. 
I  would  next  compare  the  life  of  the  affections 
and  that  of  the  intellect  as  to  the  promise  of  suc- 
cess and  attainment.  In  every  path  of  intellect- 
ual effort,  the  saying  of  the  Apostle  with  regard 
to  the  ancient  games,  —  *^  All  run,  but  only  one 
receives  the  prize,"  —  is  almost  literally  applica- 
ble.    The  prizes  are  but  for  few.     What  many 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE    AFFECTIONS.  211 

seek,  here  and  there  one  can  win  ;  and  for  every 
grade  of  intellectual  rank  and  influence,  many 
aspirants  fail  where  few  succeed.  But  the  high 
places  of  moral  excellence  are  within  the  reacii 
of  all.  In  our  Father's  house  are  many  man- 
sions, and  an  equal  welcome  for  all  who  strivo 
to  enter. 

Then,  too,  how  much  nearer  absolute  perfec- 
tion can  we  approach  in  the  moral  than  in  the 
intellectual  life  !  Our  growth  in  knowledge  is 
growth  in  conscious  ignorance.  The  dimensions 
of  truth  enlarge  before  us  faster  than  our  concep- 
tions of  it.  Perfect  knowledge  and  perfect  wis- 
dom are  unknown  terms  this  side  of  heaven.  But 
of  the  life  of  the  affections,  of  that  love  which 
mounts  in  prayer  to  the  throne  of  God,  and  ex- 
cludes none  of  his  children  from  its  embrace, 
the  Divine  Teacher  has  said,  —  "  Be  ye  perfect, 
even  as  your  Father  in  heaven  is  perfect.'*  In 
piety  and  charity  we  may  measure  our  spirits 
with  that  of  the  perfect  Redeemer,  —  may  look 
with  despair  on  no  trait  of  his  character,  —  may 
make  absolute  perfection  our  constant  aim,  our 
ever  nearer  goal.  These  thoughts  arc  strikingly 
illustrated  in  the  history  of  our  race.  The  wisest 
men  have  always  been  outgrown  in  a  few  genera- 
tions, and  the  ignorance  of  men  who  filled  the 
Avorld  with  their  renown  is  the  laughing-stock  of 
modern  schoolboys.  We  look  down  on  all  an- 
cient wisdom  as  men  used  to  look  up  to  it ;  and 


212  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

future  generations  of  children  will  learn  in  their 
infant  schools  truths  that  have  but  just  dawned 
upon  the  greatest  minds  of  the  present  day.  But 
a  good  man  the  world  never  outgrows,  never 
looks  down  upon.  Elijah  and  Daniel,  Stephen 
and  Paul,  fill  as  large  and  high  a  place  in  the 
world's  eye  as  if  they  had  lived  in  the  last  cen- 
tury. Fenelon  and  Oberlin  will  seem  to  the  end 
of  time  to  have  reached  as  lofty  a  summit  of  per- 
fection as  that  on  which  they  stand  to  our  view. 
The  stars  in  the  galaxy  of  moral  excellence  never 
grow  dim,  and  can  never  be  outshone.  And  these 
stars  shoot  up  into  the  firmament  from  the  low- 
liest homes  and  the  humblest  walks  of  duty  ;  for 
no  obscurity  of  earthly  place  can  cut  off  one  who 
lives  in  love,  and  labors  for  man  in  the  strength  of 
God,  from  the  early  recorded  blessing,  —  "They 
that  turn  many  to  righteousness  shall  shine  as 
stars  for  ever  and  ever." 

AYe  might  again  compare  the  life  of  mere  in- 
tellect with  that  of  the  affections,  as  to  the  power 
of  resisting  severe  temptation  and  blighting  evil. 
It  is  a  common  idea  among  the  young  and  san- 
guine, that  a  clear  mind,  sound  sense,  and  an  ac- 
curate perception  of  the  qualities  and  tendencies 
of  actions,  are  enough  to  save  one  from  moral 
degradation  and  ruin.  Many  strong-minded  and 
well-disposed  young  people  deem  it  impossible 
that  they  should  ever  blacken  their  characters 
by   vice,   they  have   such  very  just   and    clear 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  213 

views  of  the  patli  of  life,  and  are  so  well  aware 
of  all  its  snares  and  pitfalls.  But  none  can  esti> 
mate  in  advance  the  subtleness  of  moral  evil,  or 
the  over-mastering  power  of  passion.  Opportu- 
nity may  urge,  desire  may  wax  strong,  outward 
safeguards  may  be  removed,  and  corrupt  exam- 
ple may  be  witnessed  on  every  side  ;  and  the 
merely  intellectual  life  has  no  element  that  can 
allay  desire,  subdue  appetite,  or  stem  the  current 
of  custom  or  example.  I  have  known  men,  sec- 
ond to  none  of  our  day  in  mental  power  and  cul- 
ture, but  sceptical  as  to  religious  truth,  ensnared 
in  palpable  and  gross  meanness,  arrested  in  an 
honorable  career  by  a  shameful  exposure,  and 
condemned  ever  after  to  toil  wearily  up  the  as- 
cent on  which  they  were  rapidly  climbing,  with 
the  burden  of  a  suspicious  character  and  a  dam- 
aged reputation.  I  have  known,  and  so  have 
you,  others  absolutely  cut  down,  on  the  career 
opening  before  them  with  peculiar  promise,  by 
those  vices  which,  once  indulged  in,  leave  not 
the  victim  the  freedom  of  which  he  previouiily 
made  his  boast.  Many  such,  of  the  highest  men- 
tal endowments,  sleep  in  early  graves,  dug  by 
their  own  profligacy.  Many  more  still  cumber 
the  earth,  of  which  they  were  the  destined  orna- 
ments. But  the  affections,  fixed  on  a  present 
God,  and  filling  the  life  with  words  and  deeds 
of  charity  and  mercy,  have  power  over  every 
meaner  element  and  propensity  of  our  nature. 


214  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

The  soul  that  prays  has  ever  at  hand  a  name  in 
which  it  can  bid  the  tempter  depart.  The  soul 
that  owns  the  all-seeing  Father,  and  lives  con- 
sciously in  his  presence,  draws  ever  new  strength 
from  its  heavenly  communings,  and  cherishes  el- 
ements of  thought  and  feeling  with  which  guilty 
reveries,  plans,  and  purposes  cannot  co-exist. 
God's  omnipotent  spirit  dwelling  in  the  soul  of 
man,  and  that  alone,  can  say  to  appetite,  —  "  Thus 
far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther"  ;  and  to  pas- 
sion,—  "Peace,  be  still." 

There  is  another  view,  which  strikingly  illus- 
trates the  superiority  of  the  life  of  the  affections. 
To  take  it,  we  must  follow  life  to  those  latter  days, 
which  a  part  only  reach,  but  to  which  all  look  for- 
ward, and  for  which  all  make  provision.  Tlie 
life  of  intellectvial  vigor,  reputation,  and  influence 
has  its  meridian,  and  then  its  decline.  High 
moral  culture  and  attainments  alone  modify  the 
operation  of  this  law,  and  that  not  invariably. 
Beyond  a  certain  point,  one  must  expect  to  see 
more  recent  wisdom  preferred  to  his  own,  and  to 
yield  place  to  younger  aspirants  for  the  rewards 
which  mere  acumen  and  activity  of  mind  can  com- 
mand. And  he  who  is  thus  set  aside  or  thrown 
back,  to  make  room  for  those  of  a  succeeding 
generation,  if  possessed  of  no  moral  resources, 
gi'ows  almost  uniformly  unhappy  and  misan- 
thropic. You  can  think  of  those  whose  early  ca- 
reer was  brilliant  and  eminent,  but  of  wliom  the 


THE    LIFE  OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  215 

world  has  evidently  made  all  the  use  that  it  ever 
will  make,  and  lias  left  them,  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  thrown  aside,  to  expiate  the  moral 
and  religious  unthrift  of  earlier  years  by  a  vacant, 
Aveary,  and  wretched  old  age.  Not  so  with  him 
who  has  lived  in  piety  and  love.  Moral  qualities 
fade  not  with  declining  years,  wither  not  with  the 
frosts  of  age.  The  plants  of  our  Heavenly  Fa- 
ther's planting  arc  all  evergreens.  Nor  yet  is  the 
good  man,  in  his  old  ago,  readily  thrust  aside,  or 
willingly  spared  from  his  post  of  duty.  Vener- 
ation and  love  for  him  only  grow  the  more  in- 
tense and  tender,  as  his  steps  tremble  on  the  mar- 
gin of  eternity.  We  never  feel  ready  to  miss  him 
from  the  scenes  hallowed  by  his  devotion  and  en- 
riched by  his  charity.  Blessings  follow  him  to 
his  home,  when  he  can  leave  it  no  more ;  and  the 
grateful  intercessions  of  those  who  honored  him  in 
life  waft  his  dying  spirit  to  the  presence  of  his 
Father  and  his  Saviour,  while  he,  to  his  last  mo- 
ment, so  far  from  feeling  that  his  work  is  done, 
deems  it  but  just  begun  when  he  emerges  from  the 
contracted  routine  of  earthly  duty  into  the  larger, 
loftier  sphere  of  activity  offered  him  in  heaven. 
But  look  around  you,  in  low  places  and  in  high, 
and  say  if  there  be  an  old  age  that  you  would 
willingly  make  your  own,  among  tliose  whose 
youth  and  prime  were  unconsecrated  by  the  cov- 
enant of  God,  and  unblessed  by  the  joys  of  relig- 
ious faith  and  trust.     Yet  can  you  not  fmd  in 


216  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

every  ^valk  of  life  aged  Christians,  in  whose  places 
you  would  gladly  stand,  and  for  the  peace  and 
joy  of  whose  declining  years  you  would  earnestly 
pray,  should  God  spare  you  long  and  late,  and 
suffer  you  to  linger  upon  earth  after  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day  are  over  ?  If  so,  enter  young, 
enter  now,  on  that  life  of  faith,  reverence,  and 
love,  on  which  the  dew  of  eternal  youth  still  rests, 
when  desire  fails,  and  the  weary  pilgrim  ap- 
proaches his  long  home. 

In  speaking  of  old  age,  I  ought  to  recur  to  the 
discipline  of  severe  trial  and  desolating  sorrow, 
through  which  alone  we  can  reach  declining  years. 
For  this  discipline,  the  merely  intellectual  life  has 
no  resource.  Its  route  must  lie  by  many  graves  ; 
but  it  leads  not  by  the  Redeemer's  broken  sepul- 
chre. Its  path  is  through  much  tribulation ;  but 
it  points  not  the  troubled  spirit  to  the  mansions 
in  the  Father's  house.  These  severe  sorrows  bow 
down  the  strong  man,  yea,  the  strongest,  and  may 
bow  him  in  hopeless  despondency,  and  make  him 
drag  through  the  residue  of  his  days  a  burden  of 
incessant  pain  and  weariness.  And  are  you  will- 
ing to  encounter  the  withering  of  early  hopes,  the 
sore  bereavements,  the  intense  sufferings,  which 
lie  more  or  less  in  the  path  of  all,  without  any- 
thing higher  or  better  to  sustain  you  than  the  cold 
philosophy  of  the  irreligious  world,  which  can  only 
bid  you  bear  and  throw  off  as  you  can,  by  your 
own  unaided  strength,  evils,  in  themselves  unrc- 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  217 

licved  and  unmitigated,  which  j^ou  cannot  avert 
and  cannot  remedy  ?  Arc  you  willing  to  move  on 
through  these  gloomy  passages  of  your  pilgrim- 
age, without  having  them  lighted  and  cheered  by 
rays  of  hope,  love,  and  jDromise  ?  The  life  of  the 
affections  loads  through  these  gloomy  passages ; 
but  they  arc  not  wholly  dark.  It  has  faith  in  a 
fatherly  Providence,  Avliich  can  inflict  no  useless 
evil.  It  is  sustained  by  the  consciousness  of  an 
omnipotent  presence  and  support.  It  enjoys  the 
felt  companionship  and  sympathy  of  the  suffering, 
glorified  Saviour,  and  the  communion  of  those 
who  through  faith  and  patience  inherit  the  prom- 
ises. It  beholds  the  reconciled  countenance  of 
God,  and  commands,  high  above  clouds  and  dark-» 
ness,  an  ever  nearer  Adcw  of  heaven.  Its  way 
leads  by  tombs  ;  but  they  are  all  open,  —  the  res- 
urrection angel  has  rolled  the  great  stone  away, 
and  sits  upon  it.  Its  path  is  through  much  trib- 
ulation ;  but  the  glory  of  the  eternal  kingdom 
rests  upon  it.  With  reference  to  these  trials,  then, 
which  you  cannot  shun,  let  me  entreat  you  to  en- 
ter on  that  life  of  piety  and  love  which  can  sanctify 
them  for  you  and  you  by  them,  —  which  will  mark 
each  sorrow  by  a  new  stage  heavenward,  —  which 
will  make  every  season  of  affliction  a  time  of 
peaceful  trust  in  God,  and  deep,  fervent  joy  in  the 
holy  spirit. 

Finally,  it  becomes  every  prudent  man  and 
woman,  every  discreet  youth,  to  take  some  ac- 

19 


218  THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS. 

count  of  that  only  event,  death,  which  is  sure  to 
all.  You  all  believe,  I  doubt  not,  in  God  and  in 
immortality.  You  cannot  help  believing,  in  some 
form,  in  the  certainty  of  a  righteous  retribution. 
—  in  the  consequences  of  this  earthly  life  as 
reaching  out,  for  joy  or  woe  to  every  soul,  into 
the  boundless  future.  You  cannot  help  feeling 
yourselves  accountable  to  the  Author  of  your  life 
and  the  God  of  eternity.  And  can  you  omit  all 
recognition  of  him  in  prayer,  praise,  and  duty, 
and  yet  feel  safe?  Did  you  know  death  to  be 
close  at  hand,  as  it  may  be,  is  there  anything  in 
the  mere  attainments  and  exercise  of  a  vigorous 
and  cultivated  intellect,  which  would  nerve  you  to 
meet  the  last  hour  with  serenity,  confidence,  and 
hope  ?  Would  not  the  deepest  self-reproach  fasten 
upon  your  soul,  because  you  had  not  owned  God 
in  all  your  ways,  and  offered  your  mind  and 
heart  a  living  sacrifice  to  him  ?  And  would  not 
the  pungency  of  this  self-reproach  be  in  precise 
proportion  to  the  talents  which  you  had  kept  un- 
consecrated?  Many  live  as  if  they  occupied  a 
position  which  exempted  them  from  the  cultiva- 
tion and  exercise  of  the  religious  affections,  ex- 
cused th(jm  from  allegiance  to  their  Saviour,  and 
absolved  them  from  every  law  but  that  of  judi- 
cious and  dignified  self-love.  But  no  man,  con- 
sciously on  his  death-bed,  ever  felt  himself  an 
exempt.  There  is  for  the  dying  but  one  style  of 
character  by  which  they  can  ever  be  persuaded 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    AFFECTIONS.  219 

to  measure  their  spirits ;  and  that  is  the  life  of 
piety  and  love,  which  I  have  now  sought  to  set 
before  you.  This,  and  this  only,  can  give  peace 
in  death.  But  this  fears  no  evil,  as  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  opens.  The  Ufe  of  mere  intellect 
death  breaks  off  abruptly.  Those  paths,  wliich 
it  can  pursue  with  grovelling  steps  and  earth- 
bound  vision,  have  no  issues  beyond  the  grave. 
The  life  of  the  affections  death  suspends  not; 
but  only  merges  it  in  the  unchanging  friendship 
and  undying  love  of  heaven.  Its  path  is  that  on 
which  the  Saviour  passed  from  mortal  conflict 
and  agony  home  to  the  throne  of  God.  Tongues 
shall  indeed  fail,  and  knowledge  in  its  earthly 
uses  cease ;  but  love,  born  of  God,  and  heir  of 
heaven,  —  love  never  faileth. 


SERMON    XVII 


TRUE  LIFE. 

MAN  DOTH  NOT  LIVE  BY  BREAD  ONLY  ;  BUT  BY  EVERY  -WORD 
THAT  PROCEEDETH  OUT  OF  THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  LORD  DOTH 

MAN  LIVE.  —  Deuteronomy  viii.  3. 

What  is  the  life  for  which  we  seek  and  hope  ? 
Mere  existence  ?     No.     But  conscious  happiness, 

—  an  existence  which  we  feel  to  be  a  blessing, 

—  a  large  preponderance  of  success  over  disap- 
pointment, and  joy  over  sorrow.  This  is  what 
all  desire  ;  but  they  seek  it  in  different  ways. 
On  the  memorable  occasion  on  which  our  Saviour 
quoted  these  words,  he  had  sought  it  by  a  fast  of 
forty  days  in  the  wilderness.  And  those  were 
days  of  peace,  joy,  and  victory ;  for  they  were 
passed  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  in  communion 
with  God  and  heaven,  in  the  girding  of  the  spirit 
for  those  mighty  and  incessant  labors,  for  that 
living  and  dying  sacrifice,  by  which  man,  the 
wanderer  and  the  sinner,  was  to  be  redeemed, 
reconciled,  and  brought  home  to  God.  The 
tempter  came.     Bread  in  the  desert  might  have 


TRUE   LIFE.  221 

grown  from  the  very  stones.  Jewelled  crowns 
and  sceptres  were  laid  at  his  feet.  It  was  by 
these  things  that  men  sought  to  live.  But  to 
Christ  they  were  not  life.  The  word  of  God  was 
his  only  life ;  to  do  tlie  will  of  the  Father,  his 
meat  and  drink ;  to  finish  the  work  of  toil  and 
blood,  his  crown  and  kingdom. 

Our  text  suggests  two  theories  of  life  ;  —  the 
one,  the  living  by  bread  alone  ;  the  other,  by  obe- 
dience, duty,  and  love,  by  angels'  food,  by  the 
manna  that  comes  down  from  heaven.  Let  us 
consider  both ;  and  may  God  grant  us  grace  to 
make  the  choice  which  was  made  by  Him  who 
for  our  sakes  Avas  tempted  without  sin,  and  who 
will  strengthen  us,  as  we  are  partakers  in  his 
temptation,  to  bear  part  also  in  his  victory. 

Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  only.  Yet  multi- 
tudes think  thus  to  live,  —  by  things  outward 
and  earthly,  by  the  accumulation  of  material, 
perishable  objects  of  enjoyment,  or  of  wealth, 
which  can  represent  and  command  them  all. 
The  general  sentiment  of  society  most  mani- 
festly is,  —  "Money,  wealth,  is  the  great  end  of 
life,  the  one  thing  needful  for  happiness,  the 
chief  criterion  and  measure  of  success  and  at- 
tainment. Money  answereth  all  things.  Give 
us  this,  —  give  us  the  means  of  living  as  we 
please,  and  a  constantly  growing  surplus  fund 
beyond  our  immediate  wants,  and  we  have  the 
supreme  good.     With  this,  whatever  mental  or 

19* 


222  TRUE    LIFE. 

moral  endowments  we  can  get  without  trouble 
and  keep  without  care,  we  will  not  reject ;  but, 
without  money,  no  intellectual  treasure,  no  emi- 
nence of  moral  worth,  can  suffice  for  our  happi- 
ness. Let  us  first  seek  that  which  is  outward  ; 
and  let  the  kingdom  within  take  thought  for  it- 
self,—  at  least,  we  will  waste  upon  it  no  super- 
fluous care  or  effort."  If  such  be  not  the  com- 
mon language  of  society,  what  means  this  tu- 
multuous striving,  this  trepidation,  eagerness, 
and  anxiety  in  the  pursuit  of  every  form  of  out- 
ward good,  this  earnest  struggle  to  get  and  to 
keep  what  is  earthly  and  perishing  ?  Yet  few 
have  made  the  trial  for  any  length  of  time,  with- 
out experiences  adapted  to  re-echo  the  voice  of 
holy  writ,  —  "  Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  only." 
There  are  chambers  of  the  soul  which  nothing 
earthly  can  fill.  There  are  in  the  region  of  the 
affections  waste  places  which  remahi  always  deso- 
late in  the  worldly  heart.  There  is  in  the  spirit 
of  man  a  home  which  the  Infinite  God  made  for 
himself,  whicli  no  inferior  tenant  can  occupy,  and 
which,  when  he  dwells  not  within,  feels  the  pain- 
ful void.  There  are,  in  the  native  constitution 
of  the  soul,  niches  for  all  the  kindly  social  alTec- 
tions ;  and  where  these  affections  are  not  cher- 
ished, there  must  needs  be  a  sense  of  vacuity  and 
loneliness,  even  in  the  most  prosperous  earthly 
condition.  There  must  be  all  the  while  a  latent 
consciousness  that  the  soul  is  not  fed  or  satisfied, 


TRUE    LIFE.  223 

—  tliat  it  has  acquiesced  in  something  far  below 
its  birthright.  There  cannot  fail  to  be  heard  at 
times,  from  objects  of  the  fondest  pursuit  and 
confidence,  a  voice  saying,  —  "  We  cannot  meet 
and  fill  the  cravings  of  the  immortal  spirit." 
And  it  is  to  this  voice,  ill  understood,  misinter- 
preted, that  we  are,  as  I  suppose,  to  impute  the 
effort  of  so  many  for  an  amount  of  earthly  good 
beyond  all  possible  power  of  enjoyment.  Their 
first  visions  of  happiness  are  of  a  mere  compe- 
tence. That  attained,  but  happiness  still  beyond 
their  grasp,  they  aim  at  wealtli,  and  are  led  on  in 
the  blind  chase,  always  supposing  that  the  prize, 
which  has  hitherto  eluded  tlieir  grasp,  lies  at  the 
goal  next  in  siglit. 

Apart  from  tlie  unsatisfying  nature  of  this 
grovelling  mode  of  life  at  all  times,  there  are 
peculiar  seasons  when  its  barrenness  must  be 
most  keenly  felt.  When  that  on  which  one  has 
reposed  his  whole  confidence  is  threatened  or 
withdrawn,  how  rayless  must  be  his  every  pros- 
pect and  retrospect !  His  gods  are  taken,  and 
what  has  he  more  ?  The  mad-house  or  the  sui- 
cide's grave  has  too  often  been  the  resting-place 
of  those  whose  only  trust  was  in  outward  posses- 
sions. Nor  is  there  any  form  of  affliction  so  de- 
void of  resource  or  of  consolation  as  the  hopeless 
loss  of  earthly  good  to  him  who  has  desired  and 
sought  nothing  higher  or  better. 

In  those  otlier,  and,  to  a  true  heart,  incompar- 


224  TKUE    LIFE. 

ably  keener,  sorrows  reserved  for  almost  every 
man,  what  agency  of  relief  or  consolation  can  be 
expected  from  that  which  the  multitude  so  ear- 
nestly seek  and  so  dearly  prize  ?  Can  wealth  sus- 
tain or  comfort  the  bereaved  husband  or  father  ? 
AVhen  the  strong  ties  of  natural  affection  are  sun- 
dered, is  it  a  solace  to  know  that  they  had  been 
gilded  and  jewelled  ?  If  they  were  not  strength- 
ened and  sanctified  by  Christian  communion,  by 
the  fellowsliip  of  heaven-seeking  souls, —  if  the 
only  common  interests  have  been  sordid  and 
grovelling,  then  has  tlie  prosperity  enjoyed  to- 
gether left  the  survivor  only  tlie  heavier  burden 
of  remembrances  not  again  to  be  realized,  and  of 
joys  for  ever  fled. 

For  liim,  who  has  sought  to  live  for  and  by 
mere  outward  and  earthly  good,  it  is  also  ap- 
pointed to  die  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
most  inveterate  worshipper  of  Mammon  might 
be  converted  to  spiritual  desires,  longings,  and 
efforts,  if  he  would  only  stand  by  a  coffin,  gaze 
on  the  clay-cold  features  of  the  dead,  hearken 
with  the  spirit's  ear  to  their  teachings,  and  re- 
main, eyes  and  heart  intent  on  that  most  elo- 
quent of  scenes,  till  its  voices  had  all  been 
uttered.  Was  he  wlio  lies  there  fortunate,  pros- 
perous, rich  ?  Did  he  fare  sumptuously,  and  sur- 
round liimself,  in  tlie  world's  heartless  phrase, 
witli  all  tliat  heart  could  desire  ?  If  so,  wliat 
did  all  this  avail  him  on  the  death-bed  or  at  the 


TRUE    LIFE.  225 

jiidgmcnt-scat  ?  Has  auglit  that  he  had  gono 
Avith  liim  to  purchase  special  immunities  or  priv- 
ileges in  heaven  ?  Has  his  inventory  been  regis- 
tered on  the  Lamb's  book  of  life,  and  have  the 
harps  of  the  redeemed  rung  in  louder  notes  of 
welcome  for  him  ?  If  he  was  a  follower  of  Christ, 
did  any  added  consolation  flow  in  upon  his  de- 
parting spirit  from  what  he  was  going  to  leave 
behind  him  ?  Or  rather,  was  not  his  sole  re- 
pose, in  dying,  on  that  Rock  of  Ages  which 
proffers  equal  shelter  for  the  homeless  and 
friendless  saint  ?  But  did  he  trust  in  riches  ? 
Then,  in  death  and  at  the  judgment  was  that 
wherein  he  trusted  transformed,  from  a  talent 
which  he  might  have  used  for  God's  glory  and 
man's  good,  into  a  millstone  about  his  neck, 
weighing  him  down  to  the  depths  of  despair. 

Such  are  the  leading  features  of  the  life  which 
sustains  itself  by  bread  alone,  and  which  is  out- 
ward and  earthly  in  all  its  resources,  aims,  plans, 
and  hopes.  But  such  is  not  the  life  which  God 
has  ordained  for  us.  "  Man  doth  not  live  by 
bread  only  ;  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth 
out  of  the  mouth  of  God,  by  that  doth  he  live." 
As  this  is  no  less  true  of  our  outward  life  than  it 
was  of  that  of  the  manna-fed  Israelites,  it  is  em- 
phatically true  of  the  life  of  the  soul.  Its  only 
liappiness  is  in  the  word  of  God,  in  his  law  of 
duty,  holiness,  and  love.  We,  who  have  always 
lived  in  comfort  and  affluence,  and  have  known 


226  TRUE    LIFE. 

no  sharp  suffering  or  severe  lorivation,  find  it  hard 
to  divest  ourselves  of  the  fecHng,  that  very  many 
outward  things  are  absolutely  essential  to  our 
liappiness,  and  that  our  peace  is  in  some  measure 
in  the  keeping  of  that  which  passing  events  may 
give  or  take  away.  Yet  there  are  in  our  congre- 
gation those  who  could  teach  us  a  different  lesson. 
Some  of  the  happiest  persons  that  we  know  have 
no  earthly  inheritance  save  the  kindness  and  char- 
ity of  their  Christian  friends.  I  have  never  wit- 
nessed greater  elasticity  of  spirit,  a  fuller  flow  of 
gladness,  or  a  warmer  interest  in  the  prosperity 
of  others,  than  among  those  whom  a  careless  ob- 
server would  have  registered  among  the  forsaken 
and  the  wretched. 

What,  then,  are  the  elements  of  this  higher 
life  ?  Since  man,  spiritually  speaking,  cannot 
live  by  bread  only,  by  what  is  he  to  live  ? 

First,  by  faith,  —  faith  in  an  all-seeing  Fa- 
ther, whose  sceptre  rulcth  over  all,  and  who, 
if  our  hearts  are  his,  will  cause  all  things  out- 
ward to  work  together  for  our  good,  —  faith  in 
a  Redeemer,  who  has  loved  us  and  given  him- 
self for  us  as  our  Saviour  from  sin,  and  our 
Guide  to  duty  and  heaven.  What  a  priceless 
privilege,  in  a  life  of  unceasing  change,  to  look 
beyond  manifest  good  and  seeming  evil  to  the 
throne  of  love,  whence  both  are  sent  in  equal 
mercy  to  our  souls,  —  and  to  feel  assured,  that, 
in  a  world  not  man's,  but  God's,  our  lot  is  or- 


TRUE    LIFE.  227 

dered  and  our  path  directed  by  one  who  loves 
us  better  than  we  can  love  ourselves  !  Deprive 
me  of  this  faith,  and  the  burden  even  of  a  pros- 
perous life  would  seem  insupportable  ;  for  I 
should  apprehend  that  I  might  have  been  lift- 
ed on  high,  and  spared  long,  only  for  some 
more  appalling  doom.  But  give  me  this  faith, 
firm  and  constant,  in  a  fatherly  Providence,  in 
the  minute  and  incessant  care  of  the  Almighty ; 
and  my  heart,  thus  strengthened,  could  not  lose 
its  cheerfulness  under  trials,  however  intense  or 
desolating.  How  inestimably  rich,  also,  is  the 
solace  that  we  may  derive  from  looking  to  Jesus, 
our  divine  fellow-sufferer,  and  remembering,  as 
the  waves  of  sorrow  break  over  us,  or  as  the 
valley  of  death  opens  before  us,  that  his  crown  of 
thorns  has  become  the  diadem  of  his  truest  glory, 
and  his  cross  the  sceptre  of  his  universal  sway  ! 

Again,  man,  by  the  appointment  of  God,  is  to 
live  by  hope,  —  by  the  hope  of  heaven,  which 
alone  can  anchor  the  soul  amidst  the  fitful  for- 
tunes of  our  earthly  pilgrimage.  It  is  this  hope 
that  equalizes  human  conditions  as  to  their  ca- 
pacity for  happiness,  and  enables  us  to  cast  aside 
doubt  and  fear  as  to  what  lies  before  us  on  the 
path  of  life.  Travellers  to  a  better  countr'y,  sure 
as  faith  can  make  us  of  a  safe  conveyance  thither, 
why  need  we  be  over-anxious  as  to  the  mere  in- 
cidents of  our  journey  ?  I  know  not  what  earth- 
ly lot  we  might  not  thankfully  welcome,  for  the 


228  TRUE    LIFE. 

experience  wliicli  it  might  afford  of  our  Father's 
presence,  and  the  advantages  which  it  might  fur- 
nish for  a  consecrated  walk  to  heaven ;  for  every 
lot,  nay,  each  seeming  extreme  of  good  and  evil, 
has  its  own  stern  discipline,  its  blessed  baptism, 
as  it  may  prove,  of  severe  trial,  and  each  has  its 
peculiar  seasons  of  refreshing  from  the  Divine 
presence,  and  its  foreshinings  of  heavenly  joy. 

By  God's  appointment,  we  are  also  to  nourish 
our  souls  by  charity,  by  sympathy  with  our  breth- 
ren, by  bearing  their  burdens  and  helping  their 
joys.  There  can  be  no  life  worth  living  with- 
out brotherly  love,  —  without  a  ready  heart  and 
hand  for  the  needy,  the  suffering,  and  the  err- 
ing, ^hat  a  vast  power  of  happiness,  what  a 
treasury  of  glad  experiences,  lies  locked  up  all 
around  us,  in  the  talents  which  we  will  not  use, 
the  time  which  we  will  not  spare,  the  money 
which  we  will  not  bestow,  for  our  poor  and  af- 
flicted fellow-mortals !  We  act  too  often  as  if 
we  were  afraid  to  be  happy.  We  linger  on  the 
brink  of  a  new  charity,  as  we  would  on  the  verge 
of  a  precipice,  and  frequently  draw  back  and  con- 
tract ourselves  into  a  narrower  sphere  of  being 
than  was  ours  before.  What  more  pitiful  sight 
than  a  man,  with  abundant  leisure,  with  large 
capacities  of  usefulness,  with  ample  wealth,  vast- 
ly beyond  the  possibility  of  need,  yet  as  much 
afraid  of  doing  good  as  he  ought  to  be  of  selling 
his  soul,  shrinking  with  a  cold  sneer  from  every 


TRUE    LIFE.  229 

modo  of  religious  or  moral  activity  or  benevo- 
lence, contentedly  leaving  the  wretched  and  de- 
graded in  their  sin  and  suffering,  and,  when 
forced  for  decency's  sake  to  render  some  little 
aid  to  a  fellow-being,  doling  it  out  as  he  would 
measure  drop  by  drop  his  own  heart's  blood  ? 
And  yet  this  very  man,  if  he  would  only  look 
into  his  own  heart,  would  fnid  that  the  paltry 
sums  thus  bestowed,  pitiful  as  they  were  in  pro- 
portion to  his  wealth,  had  purchased  him  his 
happiest  jnoments,  and  thus  yielded  him  an  in- 
terest which  the  untouched  bulk  of  his  estate 
can  never  pay. 

But  I  would  not  speak  of  charity  as  the  priv- 
ilege of  the  rich  alone,  but  as  the  right  and  duty, 
nay,  as  the  essential  nourishment,  of  every  soul 
that  truly  lives.  Nor  does  it  imply  abundant 
means,  leisure,  or  capacity.  Its  law  is,  —  "  Be 
merciful  after  thy  power.  If  thou  hast  much, 
give  plenteously.  If  tliou  hast  little,  do  thy  dili- 
gence gladly  to  give  of  that  little.  And  what- 
ever else  thou  hast  or  hast  not,  give  thy  heart." 
Let  there  be  no  barrier  of  indifference,  coldness, 
or  selfishness  between  you  and  any  child  of  God. 
Account  every  man  as  your  brother.  Feel  that 
you  are  one  of  the  universal  family,  bound  to  all 
its  members  in  indissoluble  kindred.  Say,  with 
the  heathen  poet,  —  "  I  am  a  man,  and  I  account 
nothing  tliat  concerns  man  as  indifferent  to  me." 
Thus  will  your  own  sphere  of  being  be  indefi- 

20 


230  TPwUE    LIFE. 

nitcly  enlarged,  and  your  fountain  ,of  life  kept 
full. 

Finally,  our  true  life  must  be  connected  witli, 
and  flow  from,  the  testimony  of  a  good  con- 
science, which,  if  merited,  no  outward  condition 
can  suppress  or  pervert.  Were  we  in  the  habit 
of  looking  within  as  constantly  as  we  ought,  how 
full  and  sufficient  a  source  of  gladness  might  this 
be  !  Suppose  that  every  morning  and  evening 
there  came  to  us  the  audible  voice  of  God,  say- 
ing, —  "I  have  chosen  thee,  —  I  have  loved 
thee,  —  thou  art  mine,  —  I  will  guide  thee  by 
my  counsel  on  earth,  and  afterward  receive  thee 
to  glory," — would  not  this  voice  make  us  su- 
premely happy,  let  the  world  smile  or  frown,  let 
the  current  of  our  affairs  roll  with  a  smooth  or  a 
turbid  stream  ?  And  what  but  this  voice,  more 
than  audible,  pervading  every  chamber  and  re- 
cess of  the  inner  man,  is  the  testimony  which 
conscience  bears  to  the  good  and  faithful  ser- 
vant ?  Why  should  it  not  breathe  perfect  joy  ? 
To  know,  that,  with  all  our  infirmities  and  sins,  it 
has  yet  been  our  endeavor  to  walk  before  God  in 
a  prayerful  and  trusting  spirit,  —  to  look  around 
among  our  fellow-men,  and  see  not  one  towards 
whom  we  have  knowingly  and  willingly  violated 
the  law  of  equity  and  love,  —  to  be  conscious 
also  of  an  inward  desire  and  longing  after  the 
things  that  are  true  and  excellent,  —  this  is  in- 
deed tlic  shining  of  heaven  into  the  soul  of  man. 


TRUE    LIFE.  231 

Of  tliG  spirit  which  bears  these  traits  it  may  well 
be  said,  — "  The  glory  of  God  doth  lighten  it, 
and  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof." 

This  testimony  of  a  good  conscience  is  a  treas- 
ure which  evil  times  and  untrustworthy  men  not 
only  have  no  power  to  take  from  us,  but  may  even 
render  more  sure  and  availing  as  a  source  of  con- 
tentment and  joy.  By  it  I  have  known  men  made 
far  happier  in  a  reduced  fortune  than  they  had 
been  in  affluence.  In  what  were  called  their  bet- 
ter days,  though  they  lived  at  peace  with  God  and 
man,  they  did  not  give  themselves  time  to  enter 
into  intimate  communion  with  their  own  souls, 
and  to  feed  on  the  heavenly  manna,  which  falls 
only  wlien  the  world  is  calm  and  still.  But  when 
reverses  came,  they  found  unspeakable  solace  in 
the  reflection,  that  God  had  taken  only  what 
they  had  honestly  gained  and  generously  used, 
that  they  had  made  duty  the  soul  of  business, 
and  had  not  been  driven  by  the  love  of  lucre 
to  forsake  the  law  of  God  or  to  violate  the  cov- 
enant of  their  Redeemer. 

Faith,  hope,  charity,  their  gifts  sealed  by  a 
conscience  void  of  offence,  —  it  is  by  these  things 
that  men  live,  —  in  these  alone  is  the  life  of  the 
soul.  Be  faithful,  sincere,  upright,  beneficent. 
Honor  God  and  bless  man  with  heart  and  soul, 
with  mind  and  strength.  And  then  commit  the 
outward  affairs  of  life,  in  calm  faith,  to  the  guid- 
ance and  disposal  of  a  kind  Providence,  assured 


232  TRUE    LIFE. 

that  the  soul  at  peace  with  God  is  above  them 
all,  sufficient  through  divine  support  for  its  own 
well-being  and  happiness  in  time  and  through 
eternity. 

Such  are  the  heaven-appointed  means  of  life 
and  growth  within  the  reach  of  all  of  us.  It  is 
these  that  our  Saviour  proffers  to  us.  They  were 
his  peace  and  joy.  They  are  the  fountain  still 
flowing  at  the  foot  of  liis  cross.  Other  streams 
there  are,  sparkling,  attractive,  rolling  over  gold- 
en sands  and  beneath  a  brilliant  sky  ;  yet  there 
is  a  voice  in  their  murmur,  ever  saying,  —  "He 
that  drinks  of  us  shall  thirst  again,  and  thirst  as 
often  as  he  comes  to  draw."  But  from  the  moun- 
tain of  the  beatitudes,  and  again  from  the  olive- 
shade  of  Gethsemane,  and  from  the  darkness  and 
agony  of  Calvary,  I  hear  the  voice,  —  "  If  any 
man  thirst  let  him  come  unto  me  and  drink, 
and  the  water  that  I  will  give  him  shall  be  in 
him  a  well  of  water  springing  up  unto  everlast' 
ing  life." 


SEHMON    XYIII, 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

THE   KINGDOM    OF    GOD    COMETH    NOT    WITH   OBSERVATION. 

Luke  xvii.  20. 

Ix  the  liallowed  calm  of  a  summer  Sabbatli, 
there  is  much  to  remind  us  of  the  gentle,  noise- 
less, yet  all-powerful  influence  of  our  religion. 
There  are  striking  and  attractive  analogies  be- 
tween the  outward  and  the  spiritual  universe. 
The  reign  of  summer,  in  which  we  now  rejoice, 
came  not  with  observation  ;  but  it  has  quietly 
stolen  upon  us,  lias  grown  while  we  were  sleep- 
ing, lias  derived  its  nutriment  from  alternate 
sunbeams,  dews,  and  showers,  each  beautiful  in 
its  season,  but  at  no  one  moment  suggesting  as- 
sociations of  intense  power.  And  yet  they  have 
made  the  desert  blossom,  have  gladdened  the 
forest,  and  replaced  tlie  late  sterile,  frost-bound 
landscape  by  gorgeous  bloom  and  ricli  promise  ; 
and  tlicy  remind  us  of  Him  of  whom  it  was  said, 
—  "  lie  shall  come  like  rain  upon  the  grass,  and 

20* 


23Jt  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

as  showers  that  water  the  earth "  ;  and  at  the 
same  time,  —  "He  shall  have  dominion  from  sea 
to  sea,  and  from  the  river  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth." 

In  the  realms  both  of  nature  and  of  mind,  man 
works  with  observation,  —  God,  in  silence  ;  man, 
in  abrupt,  fragmentary  efforts,  —  God,  in  contin- 
uous and  progressive  plans,  in  wliich  are  at  once 
the  hidings  and  the  vast  results  of  omnipotence. 
As  in  harmony  with  the  voices  and  impressions  of 
the  season,  let  us  consider  the  idea  of  our  text,  as 
illustrated  in  the  establishment  of  our  Saviour's 
kingdom  on  the  earth,  in  its  re-establishment  in 
the  individual  soul,  and  in  the  healing  and  sancti- 
fying influences  that  go  forth  for  society  from 
every  true  subject  of  his  kingdom. 

1.  Our  Saviour's  kingdom,  as  founded  by  him 
personally,  came  "  not  with  observation.  "  How 
quiet,  gentle,  unobtrusive,  was  his  passage  through 
life  !  None  could  say  when  his  kingdom  came. 
There  was  no  sounding  of  trumpets  before  him, 
—  no  ostentatious  announcement  of  the  beo:in- 
ning  of  his  reign.  No  series  of  events  could  liavc 
been  less  conspicvious,  no  discourses  less  pretend- 
ing, than  tliose  of  his  ministry.  Even  his  most 
stupendous  miracles  were  wrought  in  comparative 
retirement,  by  the  death-bed  and  at  the  grave-side. 
His  days  were  chiefly  spent  among  the  lowly,  the 
stricken,  and  the  suffering.  AVhen  he  spoke,  it 
was  by  the  way-side  or  in  the  fishing-boat,  and  the 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  235 

passing  shower  or  the  opening  blossom  gave  liini 
liis  text.  Sometimes  his  hearers  were  attracted 
by  a  story  full  of  stirring  imagery  and  striking  in- 
cident,—  they  listened  intently,  and  the  graphic 
words  sank  into  their  inmost  souls  ;  yet  they  knew 
not  for  months  afterwards,  that  in  those  words 
were  wrapped  the  deepest  mysteries  of  the  king- 
dom of  heaven.  Then,  again,  with  reference  to 
some  engrossing  event  or  question  of  the  day,  he 
uttered  a  few  simple,  pertinent  sayings,  so  per- 
fectly well-timed,  that  they  seemed  adapted  to  no 
other  23lace  or  moment ;  yet  those  who  heard  them 
could  not  forget  them,  but  found  that  they  suited 
other  times  and  occasions,  that  they  had  an  ex- 
haustless  depth  and  fulness  of  meaning,  and  at 
length  that  they  were  the  very  mind  and  will  of 
the  Eternal  for  all  lands  and  ages.  His  least  for- 
mal utterances  could  not  fade  from  men's  mem- 
ories, but  were  cherislied  as  gems  of  heaven. 
There  was  no  show  of  a  system  either  in  his 
preaching  or  his  life.  His  ministry  lasted  but 
little  more  than  a  year ;  and  of  that  a  very  few 
days  only  were  passed  in  other  company  than  that 
of  unlettered  fishermen,  and  most  of  the  time  in 
the  desert,  on  the  lake,  or  in  rural  hamlets,  then 
obscure  and  despised,. though  now  illustrious,  be- 
cause they  bore  his  footprints.  He  was  perpet- 
ually harassed  by  the  importunity  and  wayward- 
ness of  his  friends,  or  the  captiousness  and  malice 
of  his  enemies.     He  left  no  written  record  behind 


236  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

liim;  and  his  ^vrords  and  deeds  vere  preserved 
in  the  most  miscellaneous  form  hy  a  few  of  his 
illiterate  followers,  whom  no  impulse  short  of  tlic 
most  affectionate  and  zealous  interest  in  his  mem- 
ory could  have  induced  to  become  authors.  Yet 
wlien  we  look  at  his  gospel  as  a  whole,  we  can  say, 
"  It  is  finished."  We  find  nothing  that  needed 
to  be  said  or  done  left  unsaid  or  undone.  And 
as  his  disciples,  who,  on  the  morning  of  the  as- 
cension, had  inquired  about  his  reign  as  if  it  were 
yet  to  begin,  looked  back  iipon  his  works  of  pow- 
er, his  words  of  love,  the  agony  of  the  garden, 
and  the  victory  of  the  cross,  they  saw  that  the 
kingdom  of  God  had  fully  come.  The  isolated 
threads  and  colors  of  his  doctrine  and  his  life 
grouped  themselves  in  beautiful  symmetry  and 
harmony ;  and  on  the  canvas  where  they  would 
have  thought  to  see  only  a  few  bright,  but  vague 
and  disconnected  touches,  they  beheld  a  finished 
picture,  with  the  inscription,  to  which  their  hearts 
thankfully  responded,  —  "  Surely  this  was  the  Son 
of  God. " 

Before  unbelieving  Jews,  and  Gentiles  too,  how 
strikingly  true  was  it  that  his  kingdom  came  not 
with  observation !  The  Jews  saw  in  Jesus  and 
his  followers  only  a  score  or  two  of  ignorant  fa- 
natics, and  tliought  that  they  had  merely  to  smite 
tlie  shepherd  in  order  to  scatter  the  flock ;  but 
hardly  had  they  smitten  him,  before  his  name  was 
publicly  proclaimed  witliin  their  temple-walls,  and 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  237 

Avoii  tliousands  in  a  day  to  its  profession  and  bai> 
tism.  The  Gentiles  supposed  the  conllict  between 
the  new  religion  and  the  guardians  of  the  ancient 
law  to  be  only  a  paltry  quarrel  between  rival  Jew- 
ish sects,  deemed  the  leader  of  the  new  heresy  not 
worth  crucifying,  and  advised  the  Jews  to  chastise 
him  and  let  him  go.  But  while  the  generation 
that  saw  him  die  yet  lived,  his  cross  had  been 
made  the  revered  emblem  of  the  faith  of  thou- 
sands in  every  part  of  the  vast  Roman  empire, 
and  corrupt  rulers  and  avaricious  priests  saw  that 
a  more  than  rival  power  had  been  roused  against 
them,  and  that  the  kingdom  was  passing  irrevo- 
cably from  their  grasp.  To  my  mind,  this  quiet 
establishment  of  Christianity,  without  any  of  the 
usual  apparatus  of  great  revolutions,  is  a  conclu- 
sive token  of  the  immediate  agency  of  God  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  infant  Church.  No  other  hand 
could  thus  have  marshalled  and  put  in  motion  the 
perfect  and  divine  array  of  means,  motives,  and 
influences  for  human  salvation,  and  held  forth 
in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  world  the  finished 
work,  before  in  the  ears  of  friends  or  foes  had  re- 
sounded the  startling  declaration,  —  "  Behold,  I 
make  all  things  new." 

2.  The  sentiment  of  our  text  is  verified  in  in- 
dividual religious  experience.  Yet  it  is  often 
overlooked  or  denied.  I  apprehend  that  many 
depend  for  their  evidence  of  the  Christian  char- 
acter on  their  being  able  to  mark  the  precise 


238  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

moment  wlien  the  kingdom  came,  rather  than  on 
tracing  the  certain  proofs  of  its  establishment 
Avitliin.  But  in  the  New  Testament  we  are  no- 
where bidden  to  look  to  any  past  epoch  for  the 
proof  that  we  belong  to  the  family  of  Christ.  Our 
self-searching  is  constantly  directed  to  the  present 
state  of  the  motives,  affections,  and  principles. 
"  Examine  yourselves  whether  ye  be  in  the  faith." 
"  If  any  man  have  not  the  spirit  of  Christ,  he  is 
none  of  his.  "  ^'  He  that  hath  my  commandments 
and  keepcth  them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me.  "  In 
many,  the  growth  of  the  religious  character  has 
been  so  silent  and  gradual,  that  they  can  point  to 
no  decisive  moment  of  change.  Some  have  never 
been  destitute  of  serious  impressions.  When  they 
ceased  to  repeat  a  prayer  from  a  mother's  lips, 
they  commenced  praying  for  themselves,  and  have 
perhaps  never  passed  a  day  of  their  lives  since  in- 
fancy without  thoughts  of  God  and  duty.  Now, 
though  in  such  persons  there  has  been  a  new  and 
spiritual  birth,  —  a  transition  from  the  state  in 
which  they  were  the  passive  recipients  of  religious 
thoughts  from  their  parents  to  that  in  which,  with 
full  understanding  and  deep  emotion,  they  made 
choice  for  themselves  of  the  better  part,  —  it  is  a 
transition  of  which  they  cannot  be  expected  to 
mark  the  stages,  as  they  could,  had  they  ever  led 
an  utterly  vicious  or  irreligious  life.  Such  per- 
sons, born  and  brought  up  as  within  temple-gates, 
and  self-consecrated  from  early  childhood,  have 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  239" 

never  known  the  tlu-aldom  of  the  world's  yoke,  or 
the  bitterness  of  its  unrequited  service,  and  have 
therefore  escaped  those  agonizing  experiences  by 
Avhich  others  can  mark  their  entrance  into  the 
kingdom  of  God. 

Among  those,  also,  who  were  formerly  negligent 
of  religious  duty,  and  worldly  in  their  prevalent 
tastes,  desires,  and  feelings,  yet  free  from  those 
expressly  sinful  habits  of  speech  and  conduct 
which  need  an  abrupt  and  sudden  change,  there 
are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  been  awakened  and 
drawn  heavenward  so  gradually,  that  they  can  de- 
fine no  season  when  regeneration  took  place.  All 
that  they  can  say  is,  —  "  Once  I  was  blind  ;  now 
I  see.  Once  my  heart  was  a  stranger  to  the  re- 
ligious affections  ;  now  I  love  to  pray,  my  heart 
promptly  turns  to  God,  and  I  delight  to  seek  out 
and  follow  my  Saviour's  footmarks."  In  such  a 
case,  the  kingdom  of  God  has  no  doubt  come ; 
but  it  came  not  with  observation.  There  has 
been  godly  sorrow  for  sin  ;  but  it  was  gentle  in 
its  flow,  was  blended  with  the  hope  of  pardon, 
and  cheered  by  the  promises  of  God.  There  has 
been  an  entire  change  of  character ;  but  it  was 
wrought  step  by  step.  The  change  commenced 
with  prayer  ;  and  the  soul  had  begun  to  pray  be- 
fore it  was  fully  conscious  of  it.  First  came  the 
momentary  appeal,  the  silent  upbreathing  of  the 
spirit  to  God.  This  soon  prolonged  itself  into 
musings  on  the  concerns  of  eternity.     It  next 


240  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

took  form  and  words,  and  sought  fit  places  and 
seasons  for  communion  with  the  Father.  Then 
it  gradually  spread  itself  through  the  life  into  a 
daily  walk  with  God.  And  this  spirit  of  prayer 
has  subdued,  one  by  one,  the  unspiritual  traits 
and  habits  of  the  soul,  has  sanctified  its  once 
worldly  tastes,  has  carried  on  and  up  into  the 
boundless  future  its  desires  and  aspirations,  has 
rayed  itself  out  in  tlie  every-day  life  and  conver- 
sation, and  established  a  new  law,  and  breathed  a 
new  spirit,  for  common  scenes,  cares,  and  duties, 
so  that  the  very  habits  which  were  mere  outward 
decencies  have  become  Christian  virtues,  and  the 
very  acts  which  used  to  be  performed  for  the 
praise  of  men  are  now  wrought  with  a  single  eye 
to  the  Divine  approval.  Thus,  in  the  passage  of 
many  of  the  sincerest  Christians  from  darkness 
into  God's  marvellous  light,  has  the  dawn  broken 
so  gradually  upon  their  vision,  that  they  could 
not  say  when  night  gave  place  to  day. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  religious  experience 
of  the  faithful  eleven  among  our  Lord's  apostles 
must  have  been  of  this  stamp.  When  they  were 
called,  they  appear  to  have  been  decent,  sober, 
thoughtful  men,  but  exceedingly  unspiritual,  and 
with  an  immense  change  to  be  wrought  before 
they  reached  the  full  Christian  stature.  But  we 
read  in  their  history  of  no  precise  moment  when 
either  of  them  passed  from  darkness  to  light. 
Their  growth  in  grace  was  very  gradual.     Even  at 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  241 

the  Last  Supper,  Avorldly  ambition  had  not  wholly 
yielded  to  the  hope  of  a  heavenly  inheritance ; 
and  after  the  resurrection,  we  find  them  still  slow 
of  heart.  But  from  the  seed  of  tlie  kingdom, 
sown  in  tears  and  watered  with  blood  by  the  Man 
of  Sorrows,  there  sprang  up  at  length  in  their 
souls  a  fervor,  spirituality,  and  self-consecration, 
which  the  world  has  not  yet  seen  equalled,  and 
can  never  see  surpassed. 

For  a  different  class  of  the  regenerate,  I  well 
know  that  the  coming  of  the  kingdom  of  God  is 
preceded  by  a  violent  inward  convulsion,  and  an 
agony  of  intense  sorrow.  The  conflict  is  a  death- 
struggle  ;  and  in  contrast  with  its  gloom  and  ter- 
ror, the  quietness  that  succeeds  it  seems  more 
than  the  peace  of  heaven.  This  violent  form  of 
religious  experience,  when  not  directly  flowing 
from  harsh  and  repulsive  views  of  the  Divine 
character,  is  most  apt  to  take  place  when  the  pre- 
vious life  has  been  one  either  of  confirmed  obdu- 
racy or  of  open  and  manifest  guilt.  And  in  these 
cases  it  is  not  the  reign  of  God  that  comes  with 
violence,  but  the  kingdom  of  sin  that  passes  away 
as  in  a  whirlwind.  The  fierce  convulsion  and 
agony  of  soul  are  the  casting  down  of  the  thrones, 
that  the  Ancient  of  Days  may  sit,  —  that  the  gen- 
tl3  and  peaceful  Jesus  may  come  in  and  reign. 
Satan  falls  like  lightning  ;  the  spirit  of  God  de- 
scends like  a  dove.  The  old  heavens  may  be 
rolled  together  as  a  scroll,  and  pass  away  with  a 

21 


242  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

great  noise ;  but  the  new  lieavens  and  earthy 
wherein  elwelletli  righteousness,  are  swept  by  no 
stormy  breath. 

Let  it  not  be  inferred  from  what  I  have  said, 
that  I  would  establish  a  low  or  lax  standard  of 
Christian  character.  The  contrary  is  my  desire 
and  aim.  I  not  only  think,  but  know,  that  the 
occurrence  of  pungent  religious  experiences  at 
some  past  time  is  a  delusive  and  dangerous  test  of 
character.  I  know  avowed  infidels,  who  in  their 
earlier  days  passed  through  the  agony  of  contri- 
tion, and  the  ecstasy  of  relief  and  imagined  par- 
don. I  know  those  who,  relying  on  such  remem- 
brances, have  grown  remiss  in  duty,  and  relapsed 
into  utter  worldliness  of  spirit  and  character.  I 
have  known  those  who  have  carried  to  the  very 
borders  of  the  grave  the  assurance  that  they  were 
Christians,  on  the  ground  that  they  had  once  been 
converted,  who  yet,  in  the  judgment  of  the  broad- 
est charity,  had  lived  for  many  years  without  any 
apparent  sense  of  religious  obligation  and  duty. 
Nay,  I  have  known  this  whole  convulsive  process 
passed  through  in  a  time  of  violent  sickness,  with- 
out leaving  any  distinct  traces  on  the  memory 
when  health  returned.  But  there  are  questions 
which  would  to  God  I  might  induce  each  of  you 
to  ask  himself  before  he  sleeps,  and  to  feel  that 
liis  position  in  the  spiritual  universe,  his  lot  in 
the  event  of  death,  depends  upon  the  answer. 
They  are  these.     What  is  my  present  frame  of 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  243 

licart  and  character  ?  Am  I  living  as  a  child  of 
God  and  an  immortal  being?  Do  I  sincerely 
pray,  and  that  daily  and  habitually  ?  Is  God 
much  in  my  thoughts,  and  does  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  presence  enter  into  my  daily  life,  and 
form  an  element  in  my  thoughts,  plans,  and  pur- 
poses ?  Is  his  will,  as  such,  my  law  ?  Do  I  sin- 
cerely love  my  Saviour,  and  is  his  example  my 
rule  and  measure  of  duty  ?  Are  my  thoughts 
much  in  lieaven,  and  does  the  power  of  the  world 
to  come  govern  my  heart  and  breathe  in  my  daily 
walk  and  conversation  ?  These  are  momentous 
questions ;  for  they  relate  to  the  fundamental 
laws  of  the  kingdom  of  God.  If  you  can  answer 
them  in  the  affirmative,  the  kingdom  has  come 
in  your  soul,  though  it  may  not  have  been  with 
observation.  Otherwise,  whatever  may  be  your 
remembered  experience,  the  work  of  repentance 
and  regeneration  remains  for  you ;  and  through 
no  other  gate  can  the  kingdom  be  entered. 

There  is  yet  another  error  to  which  wo  are  lia- 
ble, in  judging  whether  the  kingdom  of  God  has 
come  in  the  heart.  It  is  that  of  substituting  out- 
ward mechanical  activity  for  vital  piety.  Showy, 
ostentatious  forms  of  duty  and  benevolence  arc 
frequently  demanded  as  a  test  of  character.  Men 
vie  with  each  other  in  the  cry,  —  "  Come,  see  my 
zeal  for  the  Lord !  "  and  often  are  the  domestic 
altar,  and  those  walks  of  quiet  duty  on  which  no 
trumpet  sounds  before  one's  steps  and  no  applaud- 


244  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

ing  multitude  shouts  behind,  forsaken  and  neg- 
lected for  such  works  as  are  to  be  wrouglit  with 
shout  and  song.  These  last  works  must,  indeed, 
be  wrouglit,  tliough  it  would  be  well  to  dispense 
with  the  shout  and  song.  But  let  none  imagine 
that  an  engagedness  and  ardor,  which  crave  the 
excitement  of  sympathy  and  crowds,  indicate  the 
establishment  of  the  kingdom  of  God  in  the  heart. 
God  reigns  in  the  stillness  of  home,  in  the  si- 
lent night-watches,  in  the  lonely  path  of  duty, 
in  those  unostentatious  charities  in  which  one 
hand  knows  not  what  the  other  does,  in  patience, 
forbearance,  and  long-suffering,  in  rigid,  mi- 
nute conscientiousness,  in  the  thousand  nameless 
thoughts  and  words  of  which  man  can  take  no 
note,  but  which  have  their  record  on  high. 

The  sentiment  of  our  text  is  beautifully  illus- 
trated in  many  of  the  instrumentalities  which 
God  employs  to  bring  men  into  his  kingdom.  I 
have  time  now  to  speak,  in  this  connection,  only 
of  his  afflictive  Providence,  in  which  we  cannot 
but  admire  the  analogy  between  the  natural  and 
the  spiritual  harvest-field.  The  sower  sows  his 
seed,  and  early  drought  checks  its  upspringing. 
Day  after  day  rises  in  vernal  glory  and  sets  in 
beauty ;  yet  the  husbandman  waits  in  vain  for 
the  hope  of  the  year.  At  length,  the  sky  is  over- 
cast, the  heavy  rain  falls,  and  the  whole  landscape 
looks  more  dreary  and  desolate  than  winter.  But 
when  the  sun  reappears,  every  seed  has  germi- 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  245 

nated,  and  every  furrow  presents  its  rank  of  green 
blades,  wliich  have  drawn  vital  nutriment  from 
the  drenching  showers,  and  will  in  due  time  at- 
test in  rich,  ripe  harvest  the  blessing  of  the  early 
rain.  Thus  do  seeds  of  Heaven's  planting  often 
lie  dormant  in  tlie  soul  of  man.  Life's  happy 
days  rise  and  set  without  a  cloud,  —  scenes  of 
gladness  and  hope  pass  before  the  soul ;  and  yet 
there  is  no  spiritual  growth,  no  heavenward  move- 
ment or  aspiration.  Thick,  unbroken  clods  of 
earth  press  down  the  heavenly  seed.  Affliction 
comes,  blighting,  desolating.  Cherished  joys  are 
withered ;  the  fondest  hopes  disappointed ;  the 
idols  of  earthly  love  laid  low.  The  soul  for  a 
season  lies  prostrate  and  in  darkness,  and  neither 
sun  nor  stars  appear  for  many  days.  But  as  the 
cloud  passes  away,  the  soul  finds  itself  enriched 
and  blessed.  The  seed  which  had  long  been 
choked  has  found  room  to  grow.  There  spring 
lip  better  thoughts,  higher  purposes,  desires,  and 
affections,  tliat  lay  hold  on  heaven.  The  king- 
dom of  God  comes,  though  not  with  observation, 
not  recognized  at  first  in  the  atmosphere  of  sad- 
ness that  encircles  the  home  and  heart,  but  soon 
shedding  over  tlie  desolate  home  and  the  grief- 
stricken  heart  a  peace  more  profound  and  a  high- 
er joy  than  had  been  felt  or  conceived  before. 

3.  But  I  must  pass  to  the  last  topic  proposed 
for  our  consideration, — the  sentiment  of  our  text 
as  illustrated  in  the  influence  of  Christian  char- 

21* 


246  THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD. 

acter ;  and  of  this  I  can  speak  but  briefly.  The 
Christian  is  indeed  bound  to  exert  liimself  in  ex- 
press modes  of  benevolent  activity ;  and,  in  these 
days  of  abounding  iniqiuty  and  of  earnest  striv- 
ing against  sin,  it  is  a  mystery  to  me  how  any 
Christian  can  answer  to  his  conscience  or  his  God, 
if  he  lets  not  his  voice  be  heard  and  his  example 
distinctly  witnessed  and  felt  on  the  right  side,  in 
the  great  conflict  now  going  on  against  the  vari- 
ous forms  of  self-degradation  and  social  wrong, 
—  in  the  cause  of  temperance,  freedom,  and  hu- 
manity. But  the  true  disciple,  when  he  has  said 
and  done  all  that  he  can  in  these  causes,  has  ex- 
hausted but  a  small  part  of  his  influence.  Most 
of  it  is  silent  and  unobserved,  —  quiet  as  the  dew 
on  a  midsummer  night,  but  like  the  dew  fructi- 
fying. It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  good  that 
may  flow  from  the  simple,  unpretending  dis- 
charge of  common  duties,  —  from  the  application 
of  a  Christian  conscience  to  the  little  daily  details 
of  business  and  social  and  domestic  intercourse. 
There  are  numberless  things  in  ordinary  life, 
which  will  be  said  and  done  in  an  indescribably 
different  way  and  spirit  by  the  Christian  and 
the  mere  man  of  the  world ;  and  the  difference, 
though  it  could  not  be  defined,  will  be  distinctly 
felt,  and  will  make  the  Christian  life  a  perpetual 
benediction  to  all  who  come  within  its  influence. 
Conversance  with  such  consistent  exemplars  of 
the   religious   character  is   among   the  choicest 


THE    KINGDOM    OF    GOD.  217 

means  of  grace  tliat  God  ever  uses ;  and  in  the 
day  wlien  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  re- 
vealed, and  when  tlie  zealous  mover  of  benevo- 
lent macliinery,  who  yet  has  neglected  to  keep 
liis  own  heart,  and  the  unostentatious  Christian, 
who  tliinks  that  he  has  done  nothing  great,  shall 
stand  side  by  side  in  the  judgment,  it  will  no 
doubt  be  in  favor  of  the  latter  that  the  sentence 
will  go  forth,  —  "Take  ye  the  talent  from  the 
unprofitable  servant,  and  give  it  to  him  that  hath 
ten  talents."  Many  souls,  that  knew  not  whence 
they  first  derived  their  better  impulses  and  prin- 
ciples, so  gentle  was  the  influence  of  the  good 
man's  example,  will  see  in  the  light  of  eternity 
that  it  was  the  outflow  of  his  spirit,  the  calm  and 
quiet  beauty  of  holiness  in  his  life,  that  won  their 
hearts  to  the  love  of  Christ,  and  awoke  in  them 
the  germs  of  penitence,  faith,  and  prayer.  Thus 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  will  many  that  are 
least  be  made  greatest ;  and  no  soul  that  has  sin- 
cerely loved  the  Saviour  will  be  left  without  the 
blessing  promised  to  those  who  turn  sinners  to 
righteousness,  and  the  disobedient  to  the  wisdom 
of  the  just. 


SEPvMON    XIX. 


THE  MYSTERIES   OF  PROVIDENCE. 

IF  THE  LORD  WERE  PLEASED  TO  KILL  US,  HE  WOULD  NOT 
HAVE  RECEIVED  A  BURNT-OFFERING  AND  A  MEAT-OFFERING 
AT  OUR  HANDS,  NEITHER  WOULD  HE  HAVE  SHOWED  US  ALL 
THESE  THINGS,  NOR  WOULD  AS  AT  THIS  TI3IE  HAVE  TOLD 
US  SUCH  THINGS  AS  THESE. JlulgCS  xiu.  23. 

Manoah  feared  that  lie  and  liis  wife  were  going 
to  be  destroyed,  because  they  had  been  visited  by 
an  angel  of  God.  Our  text  is  his  wife's  reply  to 
him.  The  heavenly  messenger  had  come  and  de- 
parted in  fearful  splendor,  and  there  was  much 
in  the  scenes  that  they  had  witnessed  adapted  to 
inspire  them  with  awe  and  terror.  But  he  had 
accepted  their  offerings,  had  conversed  witli  them 
familiarly  and  kindly,  and  had  made  disclosures 
of  God's  merciful  purposes  to  them  and  their 
household  ;  and,  setting  these  things  over  against 
the  terrific  appearances  that  had  alarmed  Manoah, 
his  wife  rightly  inferred  that  the  angel  had  come 
on  an  errand  of  unmingled  love. 


THE    MVSTEIllES    OF    PROVIDENCE.  2A0 

Wc  often  need  to  apply  a  similar  train  of  rea- 
soning to  the  mysteries  of  Providence.  God's 
angels  come  to  us  in  fearful  forms,  —  the  angels 
of  disease,  desolation,  and  death.  Their  wings 
brood  long  over  our  dwellings.  For  some  of  us, 
their  ministries  come  with  appalling  frequency. 
They  often  inflict  what  seems  at  first  sight  un- 
mingled  evil.  Tliey  palsy  the  strength  which 
had  wrought  only  in  the  service  of  God  and 
man.  They  unnerve  the  arm  which  was  the 
sole  support  of  helpless  infancy  or  age.  They 
take  large  portions  of  his  stewardship  from  the 
faithful  steward.  They  remove  from  our  keep- 
ing children  whom  we  had  vowed  to  train  for 
heaven.  They  destroy  lives  that  seemed  most 
essential  to  the  dearest  interests  of  religion  and 
humanity.  At  such  times  the  murmuring  heart 
will  say  in  distrust,  —  "  Why  hast  thou  done 
thus  ?  "  The  one  calamitous  event  often  stands 
out  by  itself.  Nothing  has  gone  before  it  to 
interpret  it,  or  to  lighten  its  severity  ;  nothing 
has  accompanied  it  for  our  special  relief  or  sol- 
ace ;  and  nothing  has  as  yet  followed  it  in  the 
world  without,  or  in  our  own  experience,  to  jus- 
tify the  ways  of  God,  and  to  sustain  submission 
by  reason.  Were  there  only  room  to  suppose  so, 
the  infliction  would  seem  arbitrary  and  wanton ; 
and,  if  considered  by  itself,  might  be  thouglit 
to  proceed  from  a  God  who  laughed  at  our  ca- 
lamity and  mocked  when  our  fear  came,  —  from 


2.50  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    TKOVIDENCE. 

a  capricious  and  malignant  tyrant,  and  not  from 
our  Father. 

I  say,  that,  in  individual  cases,  there  might  bo 
room  for  the  suspicion  of  malevolence  and  vin- 
dictiveness  on  the  part  of  the  Supreme  Arbiter  of 
our  destinies.  In  point  of  fact,  this  has  been  the 
prevalent  belief  everywhere  save  under  Christian 
culture.  A  large  share  of  divine  caprice  and 
malignity  has  entered  into  every  form  of  poly- 
theism ;  and  the  idea  of  revenge  and  needless, 
wanton  mischief  on  the  part  of  the  gods  has  led 
to  the  most  inhuman  and  revolting  forms  of  pro- 
pitiation and  sacrifice.  And  the  Jews,  forbidden 
to  attach  such  ideas  to  their  God,  and  yet  Tinablc 
to  account  for  these  isolated  instances  of  dire 
calamity  and  suffering  in  a  world  full  of  divine 
mercy,  imputed  many  of  the  most  appalling  forms 
of  physical  evil  to  the  agency  of  demons,  thus 
cutting  off  for  themselves  the  sources  of  consola- 
tion which  they  miglit  have  derived  from  the  re- 
ligious views  presented  in  their  sacred  writings. 
Under  these  mysterious  visitations  of  Providence, 
we  are  driven,  or  rather  we  gladly  have  recourse, 
to  reasoning  like  that  in  our  text.  We  appeal  to 
other  and  more  frequent  experiences,  in  which 
the  Divine  mercy  has  been  manifest,  —  to  sor- 
rows which  have  been  sanctified  to  our  growth 
in  grace,  and  to  our  long  seasons  of  unmingled 
and  unclouded  happiness.  We  survey  the  lead- 
ing features  of  the  i)lan  of  Providence,  and  then 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    mOVlDENCE.  2ol' 

say,  If,  by  the  present  sorrow,  God  meant  to 
crusli  ns  to  the  earth,  if  it  came  even  on  an  er- 
rand of  doubtful  mercy,  tlie  past  could  not  liave 
been  what  it  has  been.  Divine  love  could  not 
thus  liave  followed  us  step  by  step,  and  hour  by 
hour,  only  to  j^repare  for  us  a  severer  fall  and  a 
deeper  gloom.  In  tracing  out  this  thought,  let 
us  follow  the  order  suggested  by  our  text. 

"  If  the  Lord  were  pleased  to  kill  us,  he  would 
not  have  received  a  hurnt-offering  at  our  hands.'* 
Burnt-offerings,  under  the  Jewish  law,  were  pure 
and  spotless  victims,  wholly  consumed  without 
reservation.  They  were  ordained  as  an  expres- 
sion of  trust  and  gratitude,  and,  when  offered  in 
sincerity,  brought  the  Divine  blessing  upon  the 
liome  and  heart  of  the  worshipper.  Have  not 
burnt-offerings  from  our  households  gone  up  to 
God,  —  lambs  without  fault  or  stain,  not  indeed 
selected  by  ourselves,  but  chosen  by  the  Most 
High,  —  taken  wholly  from  us,  consumed,  lost  to 
the  outward  sight,  —  their  unseen  spirits  mount- 
ing to  the  upper  heaven,  as  the  smoke  from  the 
ancient  altars  rose  to  the  sky  ?  These  utter,  en- 
tire sacrifices  many  of  us  have  been  constrained 
to  make,  and  have  made  them  in  unspeakable 
agony  ;  yet  have  afterwards  confessed  that  they 
were  not  so  much  taken  from  us,  as  accepted  at 
our  hands.  These  bereavements  have  left  bless- 
ings in  their  train.  When  met  and  borne  in 
faith,  they  have  given  us  new  experience  of  spir- 


252  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE. 

itiial  joy.  They  liavo  opened  new  fountains  of 
inward  life.  Tliey  have  bound  us  by  new  and 
stroi:g3r  ties  to  the  unseen  world.  The  hearts  to 
which  our  own  so  closely  clung  have  borne  us 
with  tlicm  heavenward.  Tliey  have  led  us  to 
a  nearness  and  familiarity  of  feeling  with  refer- 
ence to  heaven,  which  can  subsist  in  no  soul 
tliat  lias  not  near  kindred  there.  These  events 
have  weakened  the  power  of  temptation  and  tlie 
yoke  of  sin.  Tliey  have  made  our  growth  of 
character  more  sure  and  ra]:iid.  They  have  en- 
larged our  circle  of  sympathy  and  our  power  of 
usefulness.  They  have  borne  for  us  "  the  peace- 
able fruits  of  righteousness."  As,  in  the  rude 
form  of  worship  permitted  by  God  till  Jesus 
offered  himself  on  Calvary,  the  Israelite  bore 
to  the  altar  the  fairest  of  his  flock,  the  pet 
lamb  that  knew  his  voice  and  fed  from  his 
hand,  with  many  regretful  thoughts,  and  yet 
ill  coming  months  felt  that  for  his  act  of  piety 
a  double  blessing  rested  on  field  and  fold,  basket 
and  store,  —  so  from  the  most  unwilling  sacrifice 
that  wo  have  been  strengthened  to  offer  submis- 
sively at  our  Father's  biddhig,  there  has  grown 
the  richest  spiritual  increase.  Our  sorrows  have 
cut  sliort  our  shis,  nurtured  our  faith,  given  viv- 
idness to  our  liope,  and  made  our  love  more  and 
more  like  that  of  the  Universal  Father.  In  new 
sorrows,  then,  from  which  we  have  not  had  tune 
to  gather  in  and  count  the  happy  fruits,  we  will 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    TKOVIDENCE.  253 

hear  from  like  scenes  tlmt  are  past  the  call  to 
trust  and  gratitude.  Did  it  please  God  to  de- 
stroy us,  he  would  not  have  accepted  our  burnt- 
olTcrings. 

Nor  yet  our  meat-offerings.  Of  the  meat-of- 
ferings, only  a  small  portion  was  consumed,  as 
typical  of  the  consecration  of  the  whole,  while 
the  residue  was  enjoyed  by  the  priests,  or  by 
the  worshipper  himself,  with  his  household  and 
friends.  Of  tliese  offerings  the  greater  part  were 
in  acknowledgment  of  the  common  or  peculiar 
favors  of  Providence  connected  with  the  homes, 
possessions,  and  families  of  those  who  brought 
tliem.  Has  our  meat-offering,  my  friends,  been 
duly  rendered,  —  our  tribute,  as  God  has  pros- 
pered us,  for  his  church,  his  kingdom,  and  his 
poor  ?  Have  those  alms  gone  forth  which  may 
sanctify  all  the  rest  ?  If  offered,  God  has  ac- 
cepted and  blessed  them.  And  whether  we  have 
rendered  or  withholden  tliem,  how  many  are  the 
favors,  the  deliverances,  the  peculiar  mercies  of 
our  homes,  to  which  we  should  look  back,  when 
in  any  hour  of  doubt  or  sorrow  a  murmuring 
spirit  would  arraign  the  Divine  goodness !  What 
a  talismanic  power  there  is  in  that  one  word,  — 
Jionie  I  Wliat  a  cluster  of  tender  and  endearing 
associations  does  it  suggest  1  It  is  the  most  com- 
plex of  all  words,  and  every  fold  that  we  open 
in  its  meaning  discloses  new  depth  and  richness 
of  infinite  mercy.     The  careful  husband  and  fond 

22 


254  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    mOVIDENCE. 

father,  the  assiduous  and  loving  wife  and  mother, 
the  prattle  of  infancy,  the  glee  of  childhood,  the 
harmonious  circle  of  brothers  and  sisters,  the 
blending  of  heart  with  heart  and  soul  witli  soul, 
the  gentle  repose  of  weakness  and  fear  on  bolder 
counsel  and  a  stronger  arm,  the  kindly  division 
of  cares  and  burdens,  the  mutually  helping  hand 
along  every  steep  and  rough  passage  in  life,  — 
these  are  but  a  few  of  the  merciful  appointments 
of  Him  who  has  set  the  solitary  in  families,  and 
turned  the  hearts  of  parents  to  children,  and  of 
children  to  parents.  These  home  blessings  in 
all  their  fulness  we  have  many  of  us  enjoyed 
for  years  ;  and  when  some  of  them  have  been 
suspended,  the  greater  part  have  still  been  spared 
us,  and  have  been  made  even  doubly  precious 
through  the  power  of  sorrow  to  refine  and  en- 
noble the  affections.  To  these  mercies,  new 
every  morning,  fresh  every  evening,  borne  on 
the  wings  of  every  moment,  let  us  look,  and 
learn  that  God  is  good,  when  we  bow  un- 
der those  sudden  and  agonizing  afflictions  that 
might  seem  sent  to  crush,  and  not  to  heal.  Let 
the  calm  and  quiet  scenes  of  home  enjoyment, 
which  have  borne  unceasing  witness  to  a  pro- 
tecting Providence,  shed  their  light  of  divine 
love  upon  our  hours  of  doubt  and  darkness. 
True,  to  oiu-  half-sealed  ears,  tlicse  desolating 
sorrows  blend  only  notes  of  Availing  and  despair 
with  the  hymn  of  life  ;  but  they  accord  with  the 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE.  255 

songs  of  angels  and  tlic  hosannas  of  glorified 
spirits,  and  in  the  melody  of  our  own  hearts, 
if  believing  and  devout,  they  will  flow  on  from 
sadness  to  submission,  from  submission  to  trust, 
from  trust  to  holy  joy,  till  we  enter  the  golden 
gates,  and  join  the  Avorship  of  the  redeemed. 

To  pursue  the  order  of  the  text,  — "  If  tlio 
Lord  were  pleased  to  kill  us,  neither  would  he 
have  showed  us  all  these  thing's.''^  What  has 
ho  showed  us  ?  AYhat  is  he  daily  showing  us  ? 
IIow  much  is  there  in  every  scene  and  form  of 
outward  nature  to  rebuke  distrust,  to  quell  fear, 
and  to  make  us  feel  that  the  world  we  live  in  is 
indeed  our  Father's !  Especially  in  the  summer 
world  now  around  us,  so  rich  in  bountiful  pro- 
visions, so  laden  with  sights,  sounds,  and  flavors 
designed  solely  for  gratification,  how  is  the  truth 
that  God  is  love  poured  in  upon  the  soul  of  man 
through  every  sense  and  every  avenue  of  enjoy- 
ment !  From  the  first  song  of  the  birds  to  the 
last  ray  of  mellow  twilight,  whether  in  sunshine, 
beneath  sheltering  clouds,  or  fresh  from  the  bap- 
tism of  the  midday  shower,  the  whole  scene  is 
full  of  the  present  and  the  loving  God.  He  sus- 
tains the  wayfaring  sparrow.  He  gives  the  raven 
his  food.  He  clothes  the  frail  field-flower  with 
beauty.  He  pours  gladness  into  the  unnimibered 
insect  tribes, — nay,  into  that  minute  microscopic 
creation  made  to  fdl  with  sentient  life  and  joy  the 
least  crannies  and  crevices  of  the  universe,  that 


'256  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE. 

no  grain  of  sand  or  drop  of  water  may  fail  to  re- 
flect the  image  of  the  All-merciful.  In  our  sea- 
sons of  doubt,  darkness,  and  sorrow,  hare  not 
tliese  miracles  of  Divine  care  and  love  a  message 
from  God  for  us  ?  Should  they  not  echo  to  our 
stricken  hearts  the  words  of  the  Redeemer, — 
"  If  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  and  feed 
the  fowls  of  the  air,  shall  he  not  much  more  care 
for  you  ?  " 

Manoah's  wife  added,  —  "If  the  Lord  were 
pleased  to  kill  us,  he  would  not  have  told  ns  such 
tliinp^s  as  these."  She  referred  to  promised  tem- 
poral mercies  in  her  own  household.  God  has 
told  us  yet  more,  infinitely  more.  In  the  revela- 
tion by  Jesus  Christ  he  has  revealed  to  us  truths 
and  given  us  promises,  which,  received  in  faith, 
must  put  to  flight  all  hopeless  despondency  and 
gloom.  In  Jesus  we  learn  our  Father's  perfect 
providence  and  all-embracing  love,  the  kind  min- 
istry of  earthly  disappointment  and  sorrow,  and 
the  blessings  ordained  for  those  that  mourn.  He 
tells  us  of  the  mansions  in  the  Father's  house, 
where  our  best  earthly  treasures,  when  taken  from 
us,  are  garnered  for  us.  He  points  out  his  own 
path  of  trial  and  suffering  as  blessed  and  happy, 
—  as  full  of  peace,  and  light,  and  joy.  He  tells 
us  of  tribulation,  but  of  victory  too.  We  go  with 
him  to  Gethscmane  and  to  Calvary  ;  but  we  stand 
with  him  also  on  the  transfiguration  and  the  as- 
cension mount.     He  tells  us  that  in  this  world  we 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE.  2c>7 

shall  have  sorrow,  but  says,  —  ''They  that  suffer 
with  me  shall  reign  with  me  ;  be  thou  faithful 
unto  death,  and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  life." 
In  his  teachings  and  in  the  record  of  his  pilgrim- 
age, we  learn  all  that  we  can  need  to  know  of  the 
mysterious  dealings  of  Providence.  To  interpret 
them  fully  we  cannot  expect  or  hope.  But  we 
do  learn,  and  are  left  without  a  remaining  doubt, 
that,  when  the  most  severe,  they  are  sent  in  love, 
—  are  hidden  mercies,  designed  to  discipline  our 
faith,  to  spiritualize  our  affections,  and  to  draw  us 
into  closer  fellowship  with  our  Saviour's  suffer- 
ings, that  we  may  afterwards  become  partakers  of 
his  glory.  Here,  then,  let  our  refuge  ever  be, 
when  sudden  and  desolating  calamity  falls  upon 
us  or  ours.  Let  us  go  to  our  Saviour's  own  words 
on  the  night  of  his  sorrow.  Let  us  stand  in  faith 
by  his  broken  sepulchre,  and  hear  from  the  lips  of 
him  who  was  dead  and  is  alive  again,  — "  I  am 
the  resurrection  and  the  life."  0,  could  we  take 
in  anything  like  an  adequate  view  of  the  gospel 
revelation,  how  brief,  how  unworthy  of  compar- 
ison with  joy  boundless  and  eternal,  would  seem 
the  severest  trials  of  the  present  state  !  Here 
are  pardon,  salvation,  heaven,  immortality,  offered 
us,  —  scenes  surpassing  all  imagination  spread 
before  us,  with  but  a  few  days  of  clouded  joy  and 
bereaved  affection  at  the  threshold  of  our  being, 
and  then  all  beyond,  if  we  bear  our  Saviour's 
image,  union,  peace,  gladness,  without  limit  and 

22* 


258  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE. 

without  end.  Surely,  did  it  please  God  to  destroy 
us,  he  would  not  have  told  us  such  things  as  these. 
Only  let  the  soul  be  filled  with  these  truths,  and 
then  let  sorrows  rain  down  like  rattling  thunder- 
bolts,—  they  could  not  crush  or  shake  it ;  but  it 
would  breathe  itself  forth  in  those  noble  words  of 
him  who  had  been  caught  up  into  the  third  heav- 
en,—  "None  of  these  things  move  me,  neither 
count  I  my  life  diear  unto  myself,  so  that  I  might 
finish  my  course  with  joy  ;  —  in  all  these  things 
I  am  more  than  conqueror  through  Him  that 
hath  loved  me." 

These  are  some  of  the  considerations  which 
may  sustain  us  under  such  mysterious  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence  as  lie,  no  doubt,  in  the  future 
path  of  most  of  us.  Why  these  dark  events  oc- 
cur, it  is  idle  to  ask.  Were  there  no  mysteries 
in  the  Divine  administration,  it  would  be  either 
because  we  were  omniscient,  or  because  God  was 
not  so.  In  a  beneficent  system,  embracing  all 
worlds  and  beings,  and  spanning  twin  eternities, 
there  must  needs  be  events  to  which  a  finite  mind 
cannot  assign  their  true  place  and  office.  Did 
we  see  and  know  all,  where  would  be  faith,  with 
its  sisterhood  of  Christian  graces,  —  faith,  whicli 
makes  us  children  of  God  and  heirs  of  heaven, — ■ 
faith,  which  must  precede  sight  and  knowledge, 
as  in  a  higher  state  of  being  we  learn  ever  more 
and  more  of  the  plan  of  universal  Providence, 
and  yet  must  ever  pause  and  worship  before  mys- 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    PROVIDENCE.  259 

teries  still  unrcvealcd?  Let  us  thankfully  take 
whatever  discipline  the  Father  sends,  and,  if  it 
disclose  not  at  once  its  meaning  and  its  ministry, 
let  us  wait,  in  humble  trust,  till  a  more  mature 
Christian  experience  on  earth,  or  the  light  of 
heaven,  shall  solve  the  doubt  and  dispel  the 
mystery. 


SERMON    XX 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC. 

GO  HOME  TO  THY  FRIENDS,  AND  TELL  THEM  HOW  GREAT 
THINGS  THE  LORD  HATH  DONE  FOR  THEE,  AND  HATH  HAD 

COMPASSION  ON  THEE.  —  Mark  V.  19. 

We  lose  much  of  the  impression  which  our 
Saviour's  miracles  ought  to  produce  upon  us, 
when  we  look  at  them  simply  as  isolated  and 
amazing  dispensations  of  Divine  power,  aside 
from  the  common  course  of  human  life.  Some 
of  the  most  interesting  and  touching  views  of 
these  miracles  are  those  which  we  take  in  con- 
nection with  the  homes  which  they  made  glad, 
with  the  withered  hopes  wliich  they  revived, 
and  the  departed  joys  which  they  restored.  I 
have  often  dwelt  in  fancy  on  the  return  home 
of  the  poor  demoniac,  whose  history  gives  us 
our  text  this  morning.  The  whole  scene  paints 
itself  with  peculiar  vividness  on  my  mental  ret- 
ina. I  may  not  succeed  in  transferring  it  to 
yours  ;    but  if  I   do,  I  know  that  I  can  in  no 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC.  2G1 

better  way  prepare  your  thoughts  for  the  festi- 
val of  redeeming  love  which  many  of  us  are  to 
celebrate  before  we  part. 

The  subject  of  this  miracle  has  long  been  a 
victim  of  the  most  mysterious  and  appalling  form 
of  disease  with  which  God  has  seen  fit  to  afflict 
his  human  fiunily.  His  insanity  is  not  of  that 
mitigated  type  which  suffers  control,  lets  in  rays 
of  sober  thought,  and  remains  within  reach  of 
the  endearments  and  charities  of  home.  He  is  a 
maniac  of  the  wildest  and  most  fearful  stamp. 
He  cannot  be  kept,  even  in  chains,  at  his  own 
dwelling ;  but,  with  the  preternatural  strength  of 
madness,  he  makes  his  fetters  and  handcuffs  as 
mere  withs  of  tow.  He  breaks  from  all  restraint. 
He  wears  no  clothing.  His  chief  abiding-place 
is  among  the  tombs,  where,  in  darkness,  amidst 
putrid  exhalations  and  the  tokens  of  loathsome 
decay,  he  nurses  every  wild  and  wayward  fancy, 
and  revels,  like  a  very  fiend,  in  all  that  is  gloomy 
and  terrific.  He  is  reckless  even  of  intense  per- 
sonal suffering.  In  his  paroxysms,  he  rolls  him- 
self and  lacerates  his  body  upon  the  sharp  rocks, 
and  is  covered  with  the  scars  of  self-inflicted 
wounds.  He  perhaps  had  been  a  kind  and  hap- 
py husband  and  father ;  and  now,  as  ho  wanders 
among  the  tombs,  a  vague  remembrance  of  the 
pleasant  home  he  once  had  will  ever  and  anon 
dance  before  his  hot  brain,  and  with  an  luiearthly 
laugh  and  shout  he  rushes  homeward.     But  his 


262  THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

wife,  as  she  sees  him  approaching,  must  bar  her 
doors  against  the  maniac,  and  hide  from  his  sight 
the  chikh'en,  whom,  in  a  sudden  flash  of  irre- 
sponsible anger,  he  may  dash  against  the  stones. 
And  while  he  lingers  for  a  moment  at  the  closed 
doors,  and  prepares  to  force  an  entrance,  the 
place  grows  unfamiliar,  the  recollection  of  former 
scenes  fades  away,  and  the  blind  instinct  of  his 
awful  malady  hurries  him  back  to  his  dwelling 
among  the  tombs.  Thus  has  he  been  for  years  a 
terror  to  the  whole  country  round,  —  so  fierce 
and  violent,  that  no  man  dares  pass  where  he  is 
known  to  be  near.  He  is  dead  to  all  worth  liv- 
ing for ;  his  children  are  fatherless  ;  his  wife,  a 
widow. 

There  passes  near  him  one  morning  a  little 
company  of  travellers,  who  have  just  crossed  the 
lake  and  are  on  their  way  to  the  neighboring 
city.  He  rushes  from  his  lurking-place  to  attack 
them.  But,  as  he  approaches  them,  there  is  a 
face  in  the  group  that  arrests  the  torrent  of  his 
mad  fantasies,  and  calls  back  some  gleam  of  con- 
sistency to  his  chaotic  thoughts.  That  eye  has  a 
power  which  he  cannot  resist.  There  beam  from 
that  countenance  rays  of  love,  which  fall  upon 
his  darkened  soid,  and  draw  him  nearer  to  the 
stranger.  It  flashes  across  his  memory,  that, 
when  he  dwelt  among  men,  all  hoped  that  the 
Messiah  would  soon  appear.  He  perhaps  had 
been  a  devout  man,  waiting  for  the  consolation 


THE    GADAKENE    DEMONIAC.  2G3 

of  Israel ;  and,  with  the  rapid  reasoning  of  a 
madman,  he  says  to  himself,  —  "  None  but  the 
Christ  of  God  can  wear  that  face,  which  both 
awes  and  attracts  me,  who  for  years  have 
sluinned  all  and  put  all  to  flight."  He  en- 
ters for  a  moment  into  conversation  witli  the 
stranger,  and  every  word  betokens  a  wildly 
disordered  intellect.  But  that  eye  still  rests 
upon  him.  That  face  still  beams  upon  him ; 
and  tliere  shines  through  it  the  same  spirit 
which  in  the  morning  of  creation  brought  light 
from  darkness,  and  order  out  of  chaos.  It  is 
the  glory  of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  ;  and  it 
is  pouring  ray  upon  ray  on  the  maniac's  soul. 
The  clouds  part.  The  gloom  is  scattered.  The 
phantasms  of  a  bewildered  brain  flit  away.  The 
lurid  flashing  of  that  eye  gives  place  to  a  look 
of  calm  intelligence.  The  tidings  spread.  The 
people  flock  from  the  city.  Tliey  find  him  sit- 
ting at  the  divine  Redeemer's  feet,  clothed,  and 
in  his  right  mind.  Full  of  pious  gratitude,  he 
is  unwilling  to  leave  his  Saviour.  But  Jesus 
has  not  forgotten  the  maniac's  household.  He, 
in  whom  all  the  families  of  the  earth  are  blessed, 
lost  during  his  earthly  sojourn  no  opportunity 
of  sending  comfort  and  gladness  to  men's  homes. 
"  Go  home  to  thy  friends,"  says  he,  "  and  tell 
them  how  great  things  the  Lord  hath  done  for 
thee,  and  hath  had  compassion  upon  thee." 
His  family  have  not  yet  heard  of  the  miracle 


264  THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

of  mercy.     The  father  is  seen  at  a  distance  ap- 
proaching his  former  dwelling.      All  is  trepida- 
tion  and   alarm.      The   doors  are  barred.      The 
mother    bids    her    children    conceal    themselves 
from  their  father's  sight.     But,  —  "Look,"  says 
one  of  them,  "  he  is  clothed  like  any  other  man." 
"  Yes,"  says  another,  "  and  he  is  walking  calmly 
and  quietly,  not  with  the  rude  gestures  and  hid- 
eous outcries  with  which  he  is  in  the  habit  of 
coming."      "  And,  mother,"   says  a  third,  "  he 
looks  as  he  did  when  he  lived  at  home,  and  we 
used  to  watch  for  him,  and  run  out  to  meet  him, 
and  strive  with  each  other  for  his  first   kiss." 
And  the  desolate  mother  sees,  with  a  heart  too 
full  for  utterance,  that  it  is  indeed  the  long  lost 
given  back,  —  the   dead   alive   again.      As   the 
doors  are  thrown  open,  and  the   husband   and 
father  is  clasped  in  the  tearful  embrace  of  those 
who  deemed  him  lost   to  them  for  ever,  what 
vows   of   gratitude   to    God,   what   blessings   on 
the  heavenly  Teacher,  go  up  from  those  happy 
hearts,  from  that  restored  home  !     As  the  father 
talks  to  his  children  of  the  power  and  love  of  the 
Son  of  God,  whose  look  had  healed  him,  —  as 
he  recounts  every  word  of  the  kind  Redeemer 
in  that  touching   interview,   how   fervent   must 
have  been  the  thankfulness,  how  warm  the  vows 
of  consecration,  to  him  whom   disease   obeyed, 
and   who   yet    (the   father   tells   them)    was   so 
meek,  lowly,  and  gentle  in  his  aspect,  that  the 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC.  2G5 

youngest  child  ^voiild  not  foar  to  approach  him ! 
lii  what  sweet  peace  did  that  family  rest  on  that 
memorable  night !  And,  as  the  Saviour  passed 
its  sleepless  watches  on  the  mountain  or  the  lake, 
think  you  not  that  his  spirit  was  with  the  liousc- 
hold  that  he  had  made  so  glad,  and  that  his  in- 
tercessions went  up  for  them  especially,  that  to 
their  outward  joy  might  be  added  the  blessings  of 
a  living  faith  and  an  enduring  love  ? 

All  through  our  Saviour's  weary  and  homeless 
sojourn,  were  there  not  welling  up  for  him  sources 
of  gladness  in  families  which  he  had  thus  blessed, 
in  homes  which  he  had  thus  lighted  with  unex- 
pected deliverance  and  joy  ?  For  this  is  but  one 
picture  out  of  many.  All  along  the  shores  of 
that  beautiful  lake,  and  through  the  whole  re- 
gion of  Galilee,  were  dwellings  where  the  heal- 
ing touch  of  the  incarnate  love  of  God  had 
rested.  Here  was  the  leper,  whom  he  had 
given  back  from  his  banishment  as  a  loath- 
some outcast.  There  was  the  paralytic,  whom 
he  had  raised  from  his  deathbed.  In  this  fam- 
ily, that  lovely  maiden,  the  life  and  joy  of  the 
whole  household,  was  made  ready  for  the  grave ; 
but  he  had  stood  by  her  lifeless  form,  and  borne 
it  from  the  embrace  of  death.  There,  too,  was 
that  widow,  — "  the  reed  on  which  she  leaned 
was  broken ;  the  oil  was  dried  up  in  her  cruse." 
Her  only  son  was  carried  forth  for  burial ;  but 
the  Lord  saw  her,  and  had  compassion  on  her, 

23 


266  THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

and  the  young  man  awoke  at  his  bidding.  Now 
number  up  the  miracles  of  Jesus  that  are  on 
record,  take  each  of  them  as  the  representative 
of  a  family  raised  from  sadness  and  desolation 
to  joy  and  overflowing  thankfulness  ;  and  you 
may  form  some  faint  idea  of  the  amount  of  mer- 
cy of  which  he  was  the  immediate  source,  —  of 
the  multitudes  to  whom  he  was  personally  en- 
deared as  the  medium  through  which  they  had 
received  God's  best  earthly  gifts.  You  may 
thence  learn  who  composed  the  crowd  of  Gali- 
leans that  accompanied  him  with  hosannas  to 
the  temple,  —  why  the  cowardly  chief  priests 
dared  not  apprehend  him  publicly  while  there 
were  such  multitudes  from  Galilee  in  the  city,  — 
who  those  people  were  that  smote  their  breasts 
in  agony,  when  they  saw  him  dead  upon  the 
cross. 

These  miracles,  apart  from  their  worth  as  cre- 
dentials of  our  Lord's  Divine  commission,  are  of 
infinite  value  from  their  compassionate  character. 
They  are  all  of  them  works  of  signal  mercy. 
They  unfold  to  us  a  love  unwearied  and  inex- 
haustible,— a  compassion  that  can  let  no  suffer- 
ing go  imrelieved.  They  reveal  to  us  the  High- 
Priest  who  is  touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  in- 
firmities, ^  who  bears  the  griefs  and  carries  the 
sorrows  of  his  brethren  upon  earth.  They  give 
us  an  implicit  trust  in  the  surviving  sympathy 
and  love  of  our  ascended  Redeemer.    They  bring 


THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC.  267 

liim  near  us  in  every  season  of  trial  or  sorrow. 
And,  by  looking  through  the  Son  to  the  Father 
whose  image  he  bore,  we  are  brought  by  these 
miracles  into  face-to-face  communion  with  God. 
His  glory  and  his  goodness  pass  before  lis.  From 
the  demoniac's  dwelling,  from  the  gate  of  Nain, 
from  the  tomb  of  Bethany,  there  come  to  us  as- 
surances, which  admit  not  of  being  made  strong- 
er, that  God  is  love.  When  clouds  and  darkness 
are  about  him,  we  can  go  back  to  that  year  of  his 
right  hand,  and  learn  that  mercy  is  the  founda- 
tion of  his  throne. 

These  miracles  are  of  peculiar  value  as  reveal- 
ing the  providence  of  God.  Had  what  we  call 
the  order  of  nature  never  been  broken,  we  might 
have  imagined  it  something  real  and  constraining. 
"We  might  have  looked  upon  the  universe  as  a 
vast  piece  of  mechanism,  rolled  on  in  its  revolu- 
tions with  no  reference  to  human  weal  or  woe. 
We  should  have  yearned  for  miracles  to  show  us 
that  the  world  was  not  governed  by  chance,  or 
fate,  or  combinations  of  brute  matter.  But  now 
the  wonderful  works  of  Jesus  have  laid  bare  the 
springs  of  nature,  and  uncovered  her  foundations. 
Its  mechanism,  though  perfect,  is  seen  to  be  not 
absolute.  Its  laws  bend  to  man's  necessities. 
The  wheels  are  indeed  there  ;  but,  as  in  Ezekiel's 
vision,  there  is  a  living  spirit  in  the  wheels,  and 
whithersoever  the  spirit  goes,  there  the  wheels  go. 
We  thus  learn  that  the  established  order  of  events 


268  THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

is  a  means,  not  an  end,  —  varied  in  former  times 
for  the  welfare  of  the  spiritual  universe,  and 
therefore  in  itself  flexible,  subservient  to  spiritual 
laws  and  uses,  and  ordained  for  the  nurture  and 
progress  of  the  souls  subjected  to  its  discipline. 
The  same  hand,  that  through  Jesus  visibly  arrest- 
ed the  common  course  of  events,  must  still  gov- 
ern and  modify  that  course  by  the  invisible  shap- 
ing of  remoter  causes.  Miracles  at  any  one  time 
imply  a  discretionary  providence  at  all  times,  and 
thus  they  come  to  our  hearts  with  an  unspeak- 
able power  of  consolation  in  our  seasons  of  deep- 
est gloom  and  greatest  need.  The  sick  have 
been  raised  by  a  word  from  the  couch  of  hope- 
less suffering ;  a  look  has  restored  the  maniac 
to  perfect  soundness  ;  the  dead  have  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Son  of  Man,  and  come  forth.  These 
darker  ways  of  Providence  are  then  dark  no 
longer.  There  is  for  us,  no  less  than  there  was 
for  the  men  of  Galilee,  a  power  mightier  than 
disease,  —  a  love  stronger  than  death.  The  arm 
that  then  raised  the  sick  and  dying,  still  mighty 
to  save,  is  laid  beneath  every  sufferer.  He  who 
bore  back  the  prey  from  the  grave  watches  the 
sleeping  dust,  and  receives  the  ascending  spirit. 
I  have  spoken  of  the  gladness  sent  to  so  many 
homes  and  hearts  by  the  miracles  of  Jesus.  Has 
lie  ceased  to  exert  this  benign  agency  ?  Or  have 
outward  miracles,  having  discharged  their  min- 
istry, yielded  place  to  still  "  greater  works "  ? 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC.  269 

Would  you  answer  this  question,  go  with  mc  to 
the  dwelling  of  as  happy  a  family  as  you  may  find 
among  a  thousand.  On  the  lips  of  the  parents  is 
the  law  of  love ;  tenderness  and  reverence  are 
blended  in  every  look  and  tone  of  the  children. 
An  unkind  word  is  never  heard,  a  morose  counte- 
nance never  seen  there.  The  father  daily  stands 
as  priest  at  his  own  household  altar,  and  his  over- 
flowing gratitude  hardly  leaves  room  for  supplica- 
tion. On  the  Lord's  day,  they  go  up  to  the  sanc- 
tuary together,  and  not  one  of  them  retires  when 
the  table  of  redeeming  love  is  spread.  Their 
whole  lives  adorn  the  doctrine  of  their  Saviour ; 
and  their  home  is  a  radiating  place  for  pious  ex- 
ample and  holy  influence.  But  go  back  a  few 
years,  and  what  was  that  family  ?  The  father  a 
self-made  maniac,  —  the  slave  of  brutal  appetite. 
His  chief  haunt  was  where  they  dig  graves  for 
men's  souls ;  and  when  he  came  to  his  own  house,  \ 
it  was  but  to  curse  his  family,  and  to  make  his 
home  a  hell.  The  children  were  growing  up  in 
ignorance,  waywardness,  and  squalidness,  prom- 
ising only  to  add  to  the  mass  of  pauperism  and 
crime.  The  mother  alone  trusted  in  God ;  and 
her  heart  would  long  ago  have  broken,  had  she 
not  looked  for  a  rest  where  the  wicked  cease  from 
troubling.  But  the  divine  Redeemer  visited  that 
family.  The  mother's  prayers  were  at  length 
heard.  The  father's  heart  was  touched.  The 
Lord  looked  upon  him,  and  he  wept.     His  tears 

23* 


270         THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

flowed  from  a  repentance  not  to  be  repented  of. 
His  Saviour's  face  shone  in  upon  his  darkened 
and  perverted  soul,  and  left  its  image  there. 
And  then  father  and  mother  together  bore  their 
children  to  the  Redeemer  for  his  blessing,  and  in 
united  prayer  and  effort  consecrated  them  to  his 
altar  and  his  kingdom.  He  has  accepted  the  of- 
fering, and  set  his  seal  on  all  their  hearts.  Nor 
is  this  a  scene  by  itself.  Such  are  the  blessings 
Tvliich  Jesus  has  shed  and  is  shedding  abroad  in 
thousands  of  families  all  over  Christendom.  Such 
are  the  fountains  of  compassion  that  still  flow 
from  him  whose  love  we  this  morning  commem- 
orate. There  this  day  meet  in  his  temple  and 
surround  his  altar  multitudes  whom  he  has  ran- 
somed from  the  lowest  degradation  and  the  foul- 
est guilt,  cleansed  from  the  most  loathsome  lep- 
rosy, and  brought  from  the  most  God-defying 
madness,  to  sit  at  his  feet,  clothed  and  in  their 
right  mind. 

But  while  we  contemplate  with  adoring  love 
the  miracles  which  Jesus  wrought  in  the  days 
of  his  flesh,  and  the  blessing  which  he  now  dis- 
penses over  the  wide  world  from  his  mediatorial 
throne,  sliall  we  not  prepare  for  our  approaching 
altar-service  ascriptions  of  gratitude  for  the  great 
things  that  he  has  done  for  us,  and  for  the  com- 
passion that  he  has  had  upon  us  individually  ? 
With  what  portion  of  our  well-being  and  happi- 
ness is  not  his  image  blended?     What  is  there 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC.  271 

that  renders  our  life  hero  hlessed,  or  that  lights 
up  the  future  with  promise,  which  he  has  not 
cither  bestowed,  or  made  more  precious  and  avail- 
ing ?  Do  we  behold  with  a  safe  and  glad  feeling 
the  majesty  and  beauty  of  the  outward  creation, 
and  joyfully  listen  to  the  anthem  of  universal  na- 
ture, as,  like  the  voice  of  many  waters,  her  blend- 
ed tones  rise  in  praise  and  gratitude  to  her  Au- 
thor ?  Jesus  has  opened  our  eyes  to  the  beauty, 
ovu-  ears  to  the  harmony,  of  creation.  To  him  do 
we  owe  it,  that  we  see  not  wrath  in  the  storm- 
cloud  and  meet  not  the  glance  of  a  malignant 
deity  in  the  lightning's  flash.  To  him  do  we  owe 
it,  that  we  are  not  dwelling  as  orphans  in  a  world 
without  a  God.  Are  we  bound  by  close  and 
happy  ties  of  kindred  and  family  ?  To  him  do 
we  owe  the  permanence,  purity,  and  sacredness 
of  these  relations,  —  to  him  those  domestic  virtues 
which  are  the  defence  and  joy  of  our  households, 
—  to  him  the  affections,  which  we  call  natural, 
but  which  flow  from  the  new  consecration  that 
he  has  given  to  the  family  union.  Do  we  think 
of  departed  members  of  our  circle  as  not  lost, 
but  gone  before,  —  as  treasures  laid  up  for  us  in 
heaven,  —  as  friends,  with  whom  we  shall  take 
sweet  counsel  and  walk  in  unbroken  communion 
through  unknown  ages  ?  It  is  Jesus  that  sealed 
these  hopes  for  us,  when  his  voice  broke  the  slum- 
ber of  the  grave,  and  when  he  himself,  having 
tasted  death  for  every  man,  walked  again  among 


272  THE  GADARENE  DEMONIAC. 

the  living.  Have  ^vo  the  consciousness  of  Divine 
pardon,  and,  with  all  our  unworthiness,  can  wo 
welcome  the  thought  of  our  Fatlier's  presence  ? 
It  is  because  we  have  heard  the  voice  and  trusted 
in  t!ie  reconciling  blood  of  him  who  alone  had 
power  upon  earth  to  forgive  sin.  Have  we  prin- 
ciples of  duty,  with  which  we  have  withstood, 
and  hope  still  to  withstand,  the  assult  of  fierce 
temptation,  —  principles  which  we  can  obey  with 
loy,  and  which  their  trial  only  makes  the  dearer 
to  us  ?  They  have  come  to  us  from  the  Mount 
of  the  Beatitudes,  and  from  the  lips  of  the  Man 
of  Sorrows.  They  have  been  fastened  upon  our 
souls  by  his  example,  —  sealed  for  our  salvation 
by  his  death.  If  there  be  in  us  any  virtue  or 
any  praise,  we  owe  it  to  him  who  trod  before  us 
the  path  of  duty,  and  with  his  own  bleeding  feet 
wore  its  rough  places  smooth,  —  who  has  made 
goodness  amiable  by  his  own  loveliness,  piety  at- 
tractive by  his  own  winning  spirit,  heaven  in- 
viting by  the  thought  that  he  is  there.  Do  we 
look  forward  into  eternity  without  fear,  and  think 
of  the  grave  as  but  the  portal  to  a  more  ample, 
glorious,  and  happy  sphere  of  being  ?  It  is  Je- 
sus that  has  taken  for  us  the  sting  from  deatli, 
and  the  terror  from  the  grave.  His  mercies,  like 
his  Father's,  beset  us  behhid  and  before,  —  com- 
pass our  path  and  our  lying  down.  Tlicre  is  not 
a  bright  scene  of  life  that  is  not  lighted  by  his 
smile,  —  not  a  pure  joy  that  is  not  kindled  by  his 
breath. 


THE    GADARENE    DEMONIAC.  273 

I  say  not  these  things  to  heap  unmeaning 
praises  upon  the  Redeemer's  head.  The  more  I 
meditate  on  all  of  blessing  and  of  hope  that  is 
given  us  upon  earth,  the  more  do  I  feel  that  hu- 
man life  is  but  an  extended  commentary  on  our 
Saviour's  words,  "  I  and  the  Father  are  one, "  — 
that  the  Father  and  the  Son  work  together  in  all 
that  gladdens  this  life,  and  in  all  that  fits  us  for 
a  higher  and  better  home  ;  so  that  he,  who  by 
his  own  negligence  or  guilt  '^  hath  not  the  Son, 
hath  not  the  Father."  I  feel  that  no  department 
of  the  Father's  goodness  is  complete,  till  rays 
from  Tabor  and  from  Calvary  have  rested  upon 
it,  —  that  no  cup  which  the  Father  designs  for  us 
is  mingled  as  he  would  have  it,  till  Jesus  has 
poured  into  it  those  waters  of  which  he  that 
drinketh  shall  thirst  no  more.  Let  us,  then,  ap- 
proach the  holy  table  with  the  liveliest  gratitude 
to  him  whom  God  hath  ordained  to  be  our  Prince 
and  our  Saviour ;  and  may  he  so  become  known 
to  us  in  the  breaking  of  bread,  that  we  may  fer- 
vently renew  and  never  more  violate  that  fellow- 
ship with  him,  which  is  our  peace  on  earth,  and 
cur  eternal  life  in  heaven. 


SERMON   XXI 


BEAUTY. 

HE  HATH  MADE  EYERTTHTXG  BEAUTIFUL  IN  HIS  TIME. 

Ecclesiastes  iii.  11. 

How  rich  are  tlic  traits  and  manifestations  of 
man's  creative  genius  !  Think  of  the  vast  num- 
ber and  diversity  of  gorgeous  and  attractive  forms, 
with  which  descriptive  and  imaginative  talent  has 
enriched  tlie  literature  of  all  ages.  One  might 
revel  in  the  works  of  genius  for  a  whole  millen- 
nium, and  still  its  transmitted  treasures  would 
be  unexhausted.  And  the  fruits  of  mental  toil, 
in  all  times,  from  the  rude  lyric  of  the  savage  to 
the  rounded  and  polished  productions  of  the  most 
advanced  culture,  how  redolent  of  beauty, — 
how  thickly  studded  with  gems  of  the  purest  lus- 
tre and  transcending  magnificence !  Yet  new 
sources  of  inspiration  are  still  continually  open- 
ing, and  for  thousands  of  years  to  come  original 
genius  will  find  fields  not  preoccupied,  so  that  the 
stimulus  of  novelty  will  stir  and  reward  the  liter- 


BEAUTY. 


275 


ary  artificer  to  the  end,  no  less  than  in  the  infan- 
cy, of  time.  Art,  too,  how  endlessly  varied  in  its 
embodiments  of  all  that  is  fair,  and  grand,  and 
glorious  !  Even  the  same  simple  theme,  like  the 
Madonna,  may  pass  down  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration, and  every  new  pencil  may  make  the 
theme  its  own  by  some  added  or  varied  line  of 
beauty,  some  new  sliading  or  mellowing  of  the 
features,  some  bolder  stroke  or  softer  touch. 
How  numberless,  also,  are  the  combinations  of 
blended  or  interchanging  majesty  and  beauty 
which  rise  and  are  yet  to  rise  in  the  simple  and 
the  complex,  the  lowly  and  the  lofty  forms  of 
architecture,  —  in  column,  tower,  and  dome,  —  in 
cottage,  temple,  and  cathedral !  Who  can  say  to 
the  creative  spirit  of  man,  "  Thus  far  shalt  thou 
go,  and  no  farther  "  ?  Who  does  not  feel  that 
human  capacity,  in  wliatevcr  form  it  may  seek 
to  embody  its  conceptions,  is  absolutely  limitless 
and  inexhaustible  ? 

But  whence  this  power  in  man?  What  are 
his  creations  but  copies  of  the  thoughts  of  God  ? 
That  they  are  nothing  else  is  implied  in  the  fun- 
damental canons  of  literature,  art,  and  taste. 
Truth  to  nature  is  the  sole  test  of  beauty.  That 
which  has  no  counterpart  in  God's  actual  world 
has  no  honor  in  man's  ideal  world.  That  which 
departs  from  the  plan  of  the  Supreme  Architect 
does  violence  to  human  taste,  and  is  rejected  as 
monstrous  and  repulsive.     Man,  the  creator  as  he 


276  .     BEAUTY. 

vainly  stybs  liimsclf,  is  but  the  copyirt ;  and  it  is 
because  nature  is  infinite  in  its  varieties  and  com- 
binations of  beauty,  that  we  feel  that  genius  has 
no  limit,  and  can  never  have  fully  uttered  and 
embodied  itself     There  is  always  more  to  delight 
the  eye  and  ear  in  the  works  of  God,  tlian  man 
has  ever  recorded,  sung,  or  pencilled.     More  of 
beauty  has  been  over,  around,  and  beneath  us,  on 
our  walks  to  the  sanctuary  this  day,  than  it  ever 
entered  or  will  enter  the  heart  of  man  to  con- 
ceive.    The  glad  heavens,  the  rejoicing  earth,  — 
the  numberless  forms  of  life  that  l)urtt  into  being 
with  each  eummcr  morning,  —  tlie  light  that  glim- 
mers from  dewdrops,  glows  in  flowers,  in  gaudier 
or  chaster  radiance  shines  from  the  vast  complex- 
ity, the  sublime  unity  of  nature,  —  the  rolling 
around  and  up  of  gleams  of  glory  from  all  crea- 
tion,—  the  smile  of  God  reflected  from  all  be- 
neath and  all  above,  —  does  it  not  infinitely  tran- 
scend all  power  of  thought  or  imagining,   and 
make  us  feel  that  the  combined  intellect  of  hu- 
manity for  centuries  of  centuries  could  write  out 
but  here  and  there  a  single  leaf  of  the  immeasur- 
able volume,  which  bears  the  Creator's  imprint  ? 
Do  we  admire  the  partial  copies   that  man  has 
made  ?     Do  we  bow  down  to  the  genius  tliat  can 
see  and  hear  a  little  portion  of  tlie  Divine  idea  ? 
Shall  not,  then,  our  thoughts  go  up  with  unspeak- 
ably loftier  reverence  and  more  fervent  adoration 
to  llim  who  "  has  made  everything  beautiful "  ? 


BEAUTY.  277 

Ileflect  for  a  moment  on  beauty  as  an  attribute 
of  tbe  Supreme  Intelligence.  Reflect  on  God  as 
the  Originator  of  all  that  delights  the  eye  and 
charms  the  fancy.  What  an  inconceivable  wealth 
of  beauty  must  reside  in  the  mind,  which,  with- 
out a  copy,  first  called  forth  these  numberless 
hues  and  shades  that  relieve  each  other  and  melt 
into  each  other  in  the  vast  whole  of  nature, — 
which  devised  these  countless  forms  of  vegetable 
life,  from  the  way-side  flower  that  blooms  to-day 
and  withers  to-morrow,  to  the  forest  giant  that 
outlasts  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations  and  of  em- 
pires,—  which  meted  out  the  heavens,  measured 
the  courses  and  arranged  the  harmonies  of  the 
stars,  spread  the  ocean,  poured  the  river,  torrent, 
and  waterfall !  What  an  infinity  of  resources 
do  we  behold  in  the  alternate  phases  of  the  out- 
ward universe,  each  of  which  seems  too  beautiful 
to  be  replaced  by  one  of  equal  loveliness,  and  yet 
yields  at  once  its  fancied  pre-eminence  to  its  suc- 
cessor !  Thus,  who  can  say  which  is  the  more 
replete  with  beauty,  day  with  its  all-revealing 
light,  or  night  with  its  countless  centres  of  faint- 
er radiance  ;  —  spring,  with  its  outgushing  from 
every  fountain  of  life,  its  promise  half  hidden, 
half  disclosed,  its  fresh,  thin  field  and  forest  draj> 
ery  ;  summer,  with  its  richer,  deeper  verdure,  its 
gayer  forms,  and  more  festive  aspect ;  autumn, 
with  its  harvest  wealth,  its  party-colored  foliage, 
and  its  piles  of  gold  and  crimson  in  the  west- 
24 


278  BEAUTY. 

crn  sky  ;  or  lioary  winter,  in  its  simpler,  purer 
robe,  with  its  delicate  frostwork  and  its  icy  sta- 
lactites ?  Go  where  you  will,  you  escape  not  the 
reign  of  beauty.  During  the  long  polar  night, 
the  northern  fires  bathe  heaven  and  earth  in 
splendor  more  gorgeous  than  day.  The  torrid 
sand-waste  still  lies  beneath  a  glorious  sky,  and 
is  studded  with  oases  rich  in  all  the  tokens  of 
creative  love.  Wreaths  and  fillets  of  azure  mist 
belt  the  bare  mountain  crags,  while  about  their 
summits  the 

"  Signs  and  wonders  of  the  element 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise." 

Even  in  mid-ocean,  the  phosphorescent  fires  by 
night,  the  dance  and  swell  of  majestic  billows, 
the  gorgeous  clouds  that  float  or  rest  over  the 
surface  of  the  deep,  the  leap,  flight,  and  play 
of  numberless  forms  of  life  above  and  beneath, 
sustain  the  unwearied  interest  of  him  who  views 
the  works  of  God  with  open  eye,  and  bear  con- 
current testimony  with  the  voice  of  holy  writ, 
that  "  He  hath  made  everything  beautiful." 

Now  do  not  these  manifestations  of  beauty 
throughout  the  visible  universe  reveal  a  corre- 
sponding attribute  of  the  Almighty,  —  an  at- 
tribute for  which  technical  theology  perhaps  has 
no  name,  but  tlie  true  heart  can  coin  one  ?  It 
is  more  than  power,  and  more  than  wisdom  ; 
for  these  perfections  of  the  Deity  would  liavc 
found  an   adequate   expression  in  the  vast  pro- 


BEAUTY.  279 

portions  of  the  faultless  harmony  of  creation. 
It  is  something  else  than  love,  which  might 
have  wrought  its  ends  by  means  less  diversi- 
fied, and  in  a  less  attractive  universe.  It  is 
something  which  bears  the  same  relation  to 
taste  in  man,  which  giving  bears  to  receiving, 
devising  to  enjoying,  or  artistical  invention  to 
susceptibility.  Its  source  in  the  Divine  mind 
must  be  the  human  idea  of  beauty  refined,  ex- 
alted, carried  out  into  infinity. 

The  deptlis  of  the  Divine  Intelligence  we  in- 
deed cannot  fathom ;  but  there  are  some  views  of 
practical  interest  to  be  derived  from  the  thoughts 
which  I  have  very  imperfectly  expressed,  yet 
which  have,  I  trust,  awakened  in  your  minds  a 
fuller  echo  of  your  own  experience  than  has 
fallen  upon  your  ears. 

First,  tliey  suggest  one  mode  of  worship,  which 
must  always  make  us  better,  —  that  of  the  de- 
vout contemplation  of  the  visible  works  of  God. 
I  apprehend  that,  while  almost  all  enjoy  change 
of  place,  the  exhilaration  of  travelling,  and  the 
rest  and  recreation  which  free  air  and  pleasant 
scenes  bring  witli  them,  the  chief  associations 
connected,  even  in  serious  minds,  with  scenery 
of  peculiar  magnificence  are  too  often  those  of 
amusement  rather  than  devotion,  and  that  the 
thoughts  are  prone  to  rest  on  the  society  and 
the  casual  sources  of  enjoyment  in  the  prox- 
imity  of  mountain,   cataract,   or   ocean,   rather 


280  BEAUTY. 

than  on  the  salient  features  of  the  Creator's 
handiwork.  I  deem  it  a  duty  for  all  who  can 
to  cultivate  conversance  witli  these  scenes,  not 
for  recreation  alone,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
heart  and  the  character.  It  enlarges  and  ex- 
pands the  affections,  it  ennobles  the  moral  na- 
ture, it  imparts  new  tenderness  and  refinement 
to  the  whole  inner  man,  thus  to  commune 
with  God  in  his  own  forms  of  beauty,  thug 
to  enter  more  fully  into  his  tlioughts  as  they 
are  embodied  by  himself,  unmarred  by  human 
agency. 

But  let  me  not  be  understood  to  imply,  that 
close  and  high  communion  with  God  in  nature 
is  a  luxury  reserved  for  wealth  or  leisure.  The 
beauty  wliich  we  would  seek  lies  at  every  man's 
door.  Our  heavens,  our  fields,  our  gardens,  are 
full  of  it.  Only  the  eye,  the  heart,  is  wanting ; 
and  he  who  cannot  enjoy  such  scenes  as  have 
met  his  eye  this  very  day  may  range  the  world 
over,  and  names,  prices,  and  statistics  will  be  all 
that  his  mind  will  gather  up  and  bring  home. 
The  clover-blossom,  the  midday  or  the  evening 
cloud,  the  morning  red,  the  glistening  dew,  the 
sparrow's  flight,  or  the  swallow's  nest,  may  bring 
the  Creator  as  near,  —  may  suffuse  the  heart  as 
richly  with  the  divine  spirit  of  beauty,  —  may 
prepare  it  to  enjoy  in  a  future  life  its  range 
from  world  to  world,  as  now  from  thought  to 
thought,  as  surely  and  as  efiectually,  —  as  those 


BEAUTY.  281 

scenes  where  only  the  favored  few  can  go  to 
worsliip.  AVitli  regard  to  nature  it  lias  been 
said,  (and,  it  seems  to  me,  with  literal  truth,) 
"  To  enjoy  is  to  adore."  There  can  be  no  full 
and  true  enjoyment  of  nature,  except  by  those 
Avlio  see  the  hand  and  hear  the  voice  of  the 
Eternal  in  his  works.  I  never  heard  of  an 
atheist's  enjoying  the  outward  universe,  nor  do 
I  believe  it  possible.  The  soul  that  begins  to 
perceive  the  beauty  of  the  creation  yearns  for 
communion  in  its  solitude,  for  the  living  spirit 
hi  its  stillness.  To  enter  into  the  heart  of  na- 
ture is  to  talk  face  to  face  with  its  Author. 

The  thoughts  which  I  have  suggested  lend, 
also,  a  motive  to  our  conversance  with  the  mon- 
uments of  human  art,  taste,  and  genius.  As  we 
resort  to  sages  raised  up  and  inspired  by  God 
for  the  interpretation  of  religious  truth,  so  may 
we  fittingly  look  to  those  whose  eyes  and  ears 
he  has  made  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  beauty 
and  harmony  of  nature  for  the  interpretation 
of  her  laws  and  mysteries,  for  conceptions  often 
truer  than  our  own,  for  transcripts  more  faith- 
ful than  our  didlcr  inward  vision  can  take  for 
itself.  The  genuine  poet  or  artist  stands  be- 
tween us  and  God's  world  of  beauty,  in  the 
same  relation  in  Avhicli  the  seer  or  the  evan- 
gelist stands  between  us  and  his  realm  of  truth. 
The  former  has  from  him  a  mission  to  the  imagi- 
nation, as  truly  as  the  latter  to  the  judgment  or 

24* 


282  BEAUTY. 

the  Trill.  The  latter,  indeed,  occupies  the  most 
important  place  ;  for  matters  of  faith  and  duty 
are  concerns  of  life  or  death  to  the  soul.  Yet 
the  former  may  impart  aid  of  inestimable  yalue 
to  the  mission  of  the  latter  ;  for  trutli  and  beauty 
arc  in  sacred  harmony,  and  the  mind  possessed 
by  the  spirit  of  beauty  can  the  more  readily  per- 
ceive the  proportions,  relations,  and  evidences  of 
truth,  —  the  soul  in  which  the  beauty  of  crea- 
tion fnids  a  ready  response,  being  at  that  pohit 
in  communion  with  the  Divine  mind,  can  the 
more  easily  and  cordially  enter  into  that  spirit- 
ual oneness  with  God,  which  is  the  perfection 
of  character.  But  most  of  all  does  the  devout 
mind  love  to  commune  Avith  truth  and  beauty 
in  those  forms  of  literature,  in  which  they  have 
been  blended  by  Divine  inspiration.  It  finds  no 
poetry  so  sublime  as  that  of  psalmist,  prophet, 
and  apostle,  —  that  which  connects  the  image 
of  the  heavenly  Shepherd  with  the  green  pas- 
tures and  still  waters,  draws  lessons  of  a  pater- 
nal Providence  from  the  courses  of  Orion  and 
Arcturus,  names  for  the  rain  and  for  the  drops 
of  dew  their  Father,  and  resorts  to  every  king- 
dom of  nature,  and  gathers  in  materials  from 
every  portion  of  the  visible  universe,  to  portray 
the  New  Jerusalem,  the  golden  city  of  our  God, 
tlie  gates  witlihi  which  the  sun  goes  not  down, 
for  "  the  glory  of  God  doth  lighten  it,  and  the 
Lamb  is  the  li":ht  thereof." 


BEAUTY.  283 

Again,  beauty,  though  distinct  from  love,  is 
the  minister  of  love.  Though,  without  creating 
it  in  nature,  or  making  man  susceptible  of  its 
influences,  God  might  have  been  good  and  our 
Father,  it  immeasurably  enhances  our  sense  of 
his  goodness,  and  renders  him  much  more  our 
Father.  Its  every  ray  is  edged  and  fringed 
with  mercy.  Its  every  form  bears  the  inscrip- 
tion, "  God  is  love."  When  it  beams  upon 
lis  from  the  heavens,  it  reveals  his  benignity. 
When  it  glows  on  the  earth,  or  gleams  from  the 
ocean,  it  reflects  his  smile.  When  it  stretches 
its  many-colored  bow  on  the  cloud  or  the  water- 
fall, it  utters  his  thoughts  of  peace.  Who  can 
watch  the  course  of  one  of  these  bright  summer 
days,  from  the  song  that  ushers  in  the  gray, 
misty  dawn,  till  twilight  broods  and  the  stars 
come  out  over  slumbering  nature,  without  feel- 
ing that  eyes  of  God  are  all  around  him,  — 
that  the  Divine  presence  is,  on  every  hand,  re- 
flected into  his  soul  from  field  and  sky,  from 
cloud  and  star  ? 

Have  not  all  these  scenes  a  voice  of  tender 
sympathy  and  consolation  for  the  grief-stricken  ? 
AVas  it  not  for  this,  that  our  Saviour  directed  the 
anxious  and  desponding  to  the  fields  in  blossom, 
and  the  rejoicing  birds,  and  said,  "If  your  Fa- 
tlier  thus  feed  and  clothe  them,  shall  lie  not 
much  more  care  for  you  ?  "  In  a  world  thus 
full  of  beauty,  thus  suffiised  by  the  smile  of  the 


284  BEAUTY. 

Universal  Father,  there  can  be  no  sorrow  sent 
as  sorrow.  It  can  be  only  tliose  whom  God 
loves  that  he  chastens.  The  griefs  that  flow  at 
his  bidding,  severe  and  desolating  as  they  seem, 
can  be  to  the  soul  only  what  dreary  vernal  rains 
are  to  tlie  upspringing  grass  and  the  unfolding 
blossoms,  —  what  the  cloud  big  with  thunder  is 
to  the  sultry  atmosphere  of  summer.  Not  to 
blight  the  harvest  of  human  hope  and  joy,  but 
to  bring  forth  in  fresh  luxuriance  every  plant 
of  our  Heavenly  Father's  planting,  do  the  rains 
descend  and  the  floods  come  upon  tlie  afflicted 
heart.  Not  to  destroy  or  hopelessly  bow  down 
the  soul,  but  to  dispel  the  suffocating  mist  of 
worldliness,  to  open  a  clearer,  higher  range  of 
vision  for  the  inward  eye,  to  make  the  upper 
heavens  look  serene  and  beautiful,  falls  the  bolt 
that  sends  alarm  and  agony  to  our  homes  and 
hearts.  Let  us,  then,  in  our  sorrows,  welcome 
the  revelation  of  Divine  love,  with  which  the 
heavens  are  dropping  and  the  earth  teeming, 
which  day  utters  to  day  and  night  rehearses  to 
night.  It  is  because  new  heavens  and  a  new 
earth  are  made  ready  for  us,  that  we  must  some- 
times suffer  here.  It  is  because  our  affections 
and  hopes  should  be  elsewhere,  that  change, 
blight,  and  death  must  pass  upon  their  dearest 
objects.  It  is  to  train  the  eartlily  vine  about  the 
tree  of  eternal  life,  that  the  heavenly  husband- 
man cuts  its  lower  tendrils,  so  that  it  may  cling 


KEAUTY.  285 

ever  closer,  and  climb  ever  liiglicr,  till  i:i  liis  own 
good  time  he  unearths  its  root,  and  transplants 
it  to 

"  Those  cvcrlastinj^  gardens, 
"Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  arc  the  wardens, 
"Where  every  flower  brought  safe  through  death's  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal." 


SERMOX    XXII. 


CONTIN'GENT  EVENTS  AND  PROVIDENCE. 

LORD,  IF  THOU  HADST  BEEN  HERE,  MY  BROTHER  HAD  NOT 

DIED.  — John  xi.  21. 

It  was  with  these  words  that  tlie  two  sisters  of 
Lazarus  successively  accosted  our  Saviour,  when 
he  visited  them  four  days  after  their  brother's 
death.  And  they  said  the  truth.  ^laiiy  liad 
been  the  dying  whom  liis  toucli,  his  word,  had 
given  back  to  life ;  and,  had  he  stood  by  the  bed- 
side of  his  expiring  friend,  the  tomb  would  have 
remained  unopened.  But  he  had  purposely 
brought  about  the  contingency  named  by  the  sis- 
ters. He  knew  that  Lazarus  was  ill,  and  for  that 
very  reason  lingered  on  his  way  to  Bethany,  — 
waited  for  him  to  die.  Yet  Lazarus  and  his  sis- 
ters were  the  objects  of  Christ's  pecidiar  love ; 
and  his  strong  sympathy  Avith  their  distress  and 
dread  would  have  prompted  him  to  walk  day  and 
night  that  he  might  avert  the  fatal  stroke.  But 
it  was  essential  for  the  higher  ends  of  the  Divine 


CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  PROVIDENCE.    287 

administration,  essential  for  tlie  religious  nurture 
and  elevation  of  that  very  family,  tliat  Lazarus 
sliould  die.  And  when,  with  their  restored  broth- 
er, they  had  too  a  more  living  faith,  a  more  fer- 
vent hope  of  immortality,  a  richer  experience  of 
the  power  and  love  of  Christ,  than  they  had 
ever  imagined  before,  they  undoubtedly  thanked 
God  tliat  Lazarus  had  been  left  to  die. 

There  is  a  very  close  analogy  between  the  state 
of  feeling  expressed  in  our  text,  and  that  experi- 
enced by  the  greater  part  of  the  bereaved  in  our 
own  day.  If  is  the  emphatic  word  in  the  com- 
plaint of  the  sisters.  "  If  thou  hadst  been  here, 
my  brother  had  not  died."  How  few  bereave- 
ments there  are,  which  are  not  made  doubly  af- 
flictive by  an  i/,  —  by  a  past  contingency,  which, 
had  it  occurred,  would  have  turned  aside  the 
sword  of  the  death-angel !  If  our  friend  had  not 
incurred  this  or  that  exposure,  —  if  he  had  done 
this  instead  of  doing  that,  —  if  we  had  been  early 
enough  alarmed  on  his  account, —  if  we  had  fore- 
seen such  and  such  results  from  what  was  well 
considered  and  rightly  meant,  —  a  life  so  much 
valued  and  desired  would  have  been  spared. 
Many  of  you  can  bear  me  witness,  that  such 
thoughts  have  arisen  in  your  minds  during  sea- 
sons of  sorrow  ;  and  with  some  of  you  I  know 
that  they  have  occasioned  absolute  agony  of  spir- 
it, and  formed  the  most  bitter  ingredient  in  the 
cup  of  affliction.     So  long  as  these  thoughts  are 


288    CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  TROVIDENCE. 

present,  perfect  resignation  is  impossible.  They 
come  in  between  you  and  God,  prevent  your 
minds  from  resting  on  him  as  the  sole  author 
of  the  afflictive  event,  and  bewilder  you  in  that 
endless  maze  of  second  causes,  whicli  no  mortal 
can  thread,  and  in  which  no  soul  of  man  ever 
found  repose.  I  feel,  therefore,  that  I  shall  con- 
fer a  lasting  benefit  on  many  of  you,  as  regards 
both  past  and  future  griefs,  if  I  can  suppress  that 
?/,  discourage  your  uneasy  reflections  on  what 
might  have  been,  and  lead  your  minds  up  to 
Him,  whose  wise  and  kind  purpose  remains  un- 
affected by  these  contingencies  that  give  us  so 
much  pain. 

Let  me  first  remind  you,  that,  if  there  is  room 
for  these  painful  reflections  in  any  one  case,  there 
is  equally  room  for  them  in  almost  every  case. 
Take  any  instance  of  death,  except  by  constitu- 
tional decay,  trace  back  the  last  hours,  days, 
Tveeks,  or  months  of  the  departed,  and  you  can 
always  fix  upon  some  circumstance  wdiich  seemed 
the  turning-point  of  his  destiny,  and  of  wliich  you 
can  say,  "  Only  let  that  have  been  otherwise,  he 
"would  have  been  still  living."  Only  let  danger 
be  foreseen,  and,  humanly  speaking,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  death  would  be  prevented.  Thus,  was 
toil  or  fatigue  the  reputed  cause  of  fatal  disease  ? 
It  may,  indeed,  have  been  no  more  than  others 
incur,  or  than  the  deceased  himself  has  often  in- 
curred with  impunity.     Yet,  with  death  visibly 


CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  PROVIDENCE.    289 

impending,  lie  woukl  have  suspended  the  peril- 
ous l.ibor,  liav3  bft  the  wearisome  task  undone. 
Or  has  our  friend  fallen  the  victim  of  infectious 
or  epidemic  illness  ?  Had  lie  been  aware  of  his 
peculiar  peril,  lie  would  have  passed  beyond  tlio 
infected  rejj:ioi\.  Or  would  earlier  medical  treat- 
ment have  f^rrestcd  the  disorder  ?  Could  its  se- 
verity have  been  foreknown,  those  earlier  meas- 
ures would  not  have  been  deemed  superfluous. 
Or  has  our  friend  perished  by  what  we  most  ir- 
religiously term  accident  ?  Had  the  fatal  con- 
juncture of  circumstances  only  cast  its  shadow 
before,  he  would  have  taken  warning  and  es- 
caped. Did  wo  see  early  enough  the  train  of 
second  causes  which  issues  in  death,  hardly  any 
but  the  very  aged  would  die.  Nor  is  it  death 
alone  which  we  should  thus  avert.  Calamities 
and  misfortunes  of  every  class  flow  immediately 
from  the  shortness  of  human  foresight.  Did  we 
know  of  the  impending  conflagration,  its  first  kin- 
dling might  be  smothered  by  the  hand.  Could 
the  ocean  storms  be  calculated,  and  the  shifting 
currents  of  the  sea  be  mapped  for  every  voyage, 
there  would  be  no  shipwrecks.  Did  we  fore- 
know, in  almost  every  case  we  could  provide. 
Ill  fact,  it  is  chiefly  in  this  short-sightedness  that 
human  weakness  consists.  It  is  at  this  very  point 
that  the  Divine  Providence  overrules  man's  coun- 
sels, executes  those  thoughts,  and  moves  in  those 
ways,  that  are  higher  than  ours.     When,  there- 

25 


290        CONTINGENT    EVENTS    AND    PROVIDENCE. 

fore,  5^011  say,  "  Had  it  been  thus  or  so,  my  hus- 
band, my  ])rother,  my  child,  had  not  died,"  your 
complaint  in  reality  concerns,  not  the  circum- 
stances of  that  one  case,  but  the  ordinance  of 
Divine  wi.  dom,  by  which  man  is  kept  in  so  great 
a  degree  ignorant  of  the  future. 

Let  me  next  remind  you  that  this  principle  ap- 
plies not  merely  to  the  calamitous,  but  equally  to 
the  happy,  portions  of  our  earthly  experience. 
Recovery,  preservation,  prosperity,  wealth,  single 
instances  or  occasions  of  success  or  high  enjoy- 
ment, depend  equally  on  contingencies,  which, 
when  we  look  back,  we  see  might  have  been 
far  otherwise.  Two  courses  are  before  you,  my 
friend,  and  the  motives  for  taking  them  are  even- 
ly balanced.  You  make  your  choice,  and  are  led 
on  step  by  step  to  success  or  happiness.  You 
retrace  the  series  of  causes,  and  find  that  the 
prosperous  event  flowed  from  that  first  choice. 
You  can  now  also  trace  the  results  of  the  other 
alternative  which  you  almost  chose,  and  can  see 
that  it  would  have  been  utterly  disastrous.  Yet 
your  choice  was  determined,  not  by  foresight  of 
the  end,  but  seemingly  by  the  most  casual  cir- 
cumstances. Thus  there  is  room  for  the  per- 
petually recurring  if  in  our  joys  which  we  can- 
not number,  no  less  than  in  our  sorrows  which 
we  can  count.  The  doubt  which  rests  on  our 
decisions  is  big  with  more  hope  than  fear,  brings 
in  its  train  more  gladness  than  grief. 


CONTINGENT    EVENTS    AND    TKOVIDENCE.        291 

Now,  with  reference  to  adQictive  events,  tlio 
great  mistake  to  which  avc  are  prone  consists  in 
imagining  that  it  was  in  our  power  to  foreknow 
all  that  events  in  their  progress  make  known  to 
ns.  The  child  of  a  watchful  and  experienced 
mother  is  taken  away  by  acute  disease.  The 
attack  was  sudden  ;  yet  the  seeds  of  the  dis- 
order must  have  been  lurking  in  the  system  for 
days  or  weeks  previously,  and  there  were  pre- 
ventive measures  by  which  the  danger  might 
have  been  warded  off.  The  mother's  memory, 
sharpened  by  her  grief,  can  now  recall  symptoms 
that  might  have  indicated  disease,  —  a  drooping 
of  the  eyelids,  or  a  flush  of  the  cheek,  or  an 
unusual  drowsiness,  wakefulness,  or  peevishness ; 
and,  in  remembrance  of  these  unheeded  indica- 
tions, her  sorrow  is  drugged  with  intense  bitter- 
ness, as  she  reproaches  herself  that  she  had  not 
taken  alarm  at  the  tokens  of  incipient  illness, 
and  administered  such  remedies  as  might  then 
have  proved  effectual.  I  would  say  to  that  moth- 
er,—  "These  symptoms,  my  friend,  needed  the 
event  to  interpret  them.  Tliey  have  occured 
thousands  of  times  when  they  denoted  nothing 
fatal.  They  were  such  that  even  science  and 
skill  could  have  drawn  no  certain  conclusions 
from  them.  They  were  so  slight  and  indefinite, 
that  they  would  not  have  justified  fear,  or  war- 
ranted your  resort  to  special  means  of  relief. 
Providence  did  not  see  fit  to  reveal  to  you  your 


292        CONTINGENT    EVENTS    AND    PROVIDENCE. 

child's  peril,  till  death  was  at  the  door  ;  and  you 
have  no  more  ground  for  painful  reflection  and 
self-reproach,  than  if  tlic  child  had  been  slain  by 
a  thunderbolt  from  a  cloudless  sky."  In  un- 
numbered instances,  the  event  reveals  to  us  facts 
that  existed  long  prior  to  the  event,  but  which 
in  the  nature  of  things  it  was  impossible  for  us 
to  know ;  and,  where  knowledge  could  not  be, 
there  can  have  been  no  responsibility.  No  mat- 
ter what  light  we  subsequently  gain  as  to  the 
past,  —  while  Providence  withheld  that  light, 
there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do,  and  there  can 
be  no  ground  on  which  we  should  cast  censure 
upon  ourselves. 

These  remarks  indicate  the  point  on  which 
we  chiefly  need  to  practise  Christian  submis- 
sion, namely,  as  to  the  necessary  limits  of  hu- 
man foresight.  We  need  to  be  resigned  to  our 
ignorance  of  coming  events,  and  to  our  conse- 
quent inability  to  avert  them.  This  ignorance 
is  a  part  of  the  Divine  plan  ;  and  we  can  hardly 
conceive  how  essentially  it  ministers  to  our  hap- 
piness. A  single  calamitous  event  occurs,  my 
friend,  to  you  or  your  household,  and  you  half 
murmur  that  you  could  not  have  discerned  its 
approach  in  season  to  prevent  it.  Snppose  that 
you  were  endowed  with  keen  foresight  as  to  all 
the  possibilities  and  remoter  causes  of  disease  and 
calamity  for  yourself  and  your  family,  —  think 
you  that  there  would  be  a  moment  when  some 


.  CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  rROVIDENCE.    293 

sucli  possibility  would  not  be  present  ?  Would 
not  incessant,  anxious  watchfulness  paralyze  your 
power  of  enjoyment,  fill  the  day  with  weariness, 
and  drive  sleep  from  your  pillow  by  night  ?  Such 
knowledge  would  make  you  a  sort  of  secondary 
providence  in  your  own  circle,  and  would  im- 
pose upon  you  a  weight  of  care  and  supervision 
sucli  as  no  being  less  than  the  Omnipotent  could 
sustain.  Could  you  lead  such  a  life  for  a  single 
day,  you  would  pray  to  drop  it  before  nightfall. 
Except  as  God  keeps  us,  we  are  in  incessant 
peril.  We  all  constantly  pass  through  hidden 
danger,  and  the  death-angel  daily  brushes  our 
skirts.  We  never  lie  down  to  our  rest,  or  leave 
our  beds,  without  owing  our  life  for  another  day 
or  night,  humanly  speaking,  to  a  multitude  of 
contingent  events,  which  might  all  have  hap- 
pened otherwise,  and  which  Providence  has  ad- 
justed for  us,  but  each  of  which  in  prospect 
would  have  given  us  the  most  intense  anxiety. 
AVe  should  suffer  more  in  a  single  day  from  a 
clear  view  of  all  that  we  and  our  friends  are 
liable  to  encounter,  than  from  all  the  bereave- 
ments and  sorrows  that  the  most  afflicted  of  us 
have  been  called  to  bear.  Blessed  be  God  that  we 
know  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  !  When  he 
mingles  for  us  the  cup  of  grief,  it  overflows  with 
consolation  and  with  hope.  Could  we  snatch  it 
from  his  hand  before  he  has  prepared  it  for  us,  we 
should  drink  only  a  potion  of  dread  and  agony. 

25* 


204   CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  PROVIDENCE. 

In  fine,  wc  may  sum  up  tlic  condition  of  our 
mortal  life  in  this  wise.  There  are  two  systems 
at  work  together  in  human  affairs.  The  one  is 
that  of  man's  duty  ;  the  other,  that  of  God's 
Providence.  There  is  a  world  of  practical  wis- 
dom in  the  adage  so  old  and  trite,  —  "Duty  is 
ours,  events  are  God's."  In  the  hour  of  be- 
reavement, the  question  as  to  our  fidelity  to 
duty  in  the  relation  now  suspended  will  come 
up,  and  ought  to  come  up.  Have  I  been  faith- 
ful to  the  temporal,  the  spiritual  interests  of 
the  friend  taken  from  me  ?  Have  I  been  un- 
selfish, even-tempered,  frank,  sincere,  munificent 
to  the  full  measure  of  his  rights  and  my  ability  ? 
Have  I  habitually  acted  towards  him  as  my  cer- 
tain knowledge  or  my  best  judgment  dictated  ? 
With  regard  to  the  apparent  causes  of  his  re- 
moval, have  I  been  innocent  of  wanton  careless- 
ness, so  that  I  have  neither  done  nor  sanctioned 
what  was  in  itself  injudicious  or  inconsiderate,  — ' 
what  would  have  been  so,  even  if  no  untoward 
consequences  had  flowed  from  it  ?  When  you 
can  answer  these  questions  to  your  satisfaction, 
you  have  no  ground  for  uneasiness.  You  did 
what  you  could.  You  had  not  Divine  foresight. 
Much  which  you  know  now  was  indeed  hidden 
from  you  ;  and,  had  you  known  it  earlier,  you 
would  have  done  differently.  But  God  meant 
that  you  should  not  know  it.  He  had  higher 
purposes  of  his  own  to  serve  by  your  ignorance. 


CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  TKOVIDENCE.    205 

Had  lie  seen  fit  to  spare  your  friend,  he  would 
have  indicated  the  danger  in  season  for  you  to 
ward  it  off,  or  the  certain  remedy  in  season  for 
you  to  apply  it.  Do  not,  then,  harass  and  tor- 
ment yourself,  because  you  were  not  in  God's 
stead,  —  because  you  were  a  short-sighted  mortal 
as  to  events  so  nearly  affecting  your  peace  and 
happiness. 

Such  is  the  system  of  human  duty.  Do  your 
duty  ;  and  in  the  vast  majority  of  instances  it 
will  lead  to  the  outward  results  that  you  desire. 
Obey  the  laws  of  your  physical  nature,  and  health 
Avill  bo  the  rule,  disease  the  exception.  Use  wise 
precautions  in  seasons  of  peculiar  peril ;  and  the 
shaft  that  smites  down  the  unwary  will,  in  most 
cases,  fall  harmless  at  your  feet.  Be  assiduous, 
watchful,  and  judicious  in  the  care  of  your  chil- 
dren ;  and,  in  most  of  your  households,  death  will 
be  infrequent.  Above  all,  do  your  duty  to  your- 
selves, to  one  another,  to  your  children,  as  im- 
mortals, fellow-pilgrims  on  earth,  fellow-candi- 
dates for  heaven  ;  and,  however  numerous  may 
be  the  partings  by  the  way,  they  will  be  relieved 
by  the  hope  of  immortality,  and  you  shall  all 
meet  again  where  you  will  never  say  farewell. 

But  with  all  your  care,  watchfulness,  and  fidel- 
ity, there  is  yet  another  system,  that  of  Divine 
Providence,  which  has  no  law  but  the  eternal 
love  of  God.  His  decree  has  gone  forth,  "  In 
the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation."     For  wise 


29 G        CONTINGENT    EVENTS    AND    rROA^IDENCE. 

roasons,  wliicli  are  in  part  revealed  to  its  now, 
and  whicli  we  may  fully  know  hereafter,  lie  i^ecs 
fit  to  discipline  us  by  disease,  calamity,  and  be- 
reavement. We  need  this  discipline  as  sinners, 
to  bring  us  to  repentance.  We  need  it  as  as- 
pirants for  goodness,  to  make  our  aims  more 
steadfast,  our  desires  purer,  our  faith  stronger, 
our  truit  firmer.  We  need  it  as  pilgrims  liero 
and  citizens  of  a  better  country,  to  detacli  us 
from  the  attractions  by  the  way-side,  and  to  fix 
our  thouglits  and  affections  on  things  above. 
When  God  sees  that  Ave  need  this  discipline, 
vain  is  our  care  and  skill,  vain  our  anxious 
thoughts,  our  wisest  precautions.  Disease  at 
his  bidding  will  seize  the  most  robust  frame, 
and  elude  the  most  wakeful  prudence.  Calami- 
ty will  thwart  our  best-laid  plans,  and  disappoint 
our  best-founded  hopes.  Death  will  enter  the 
fold  the  most  carefully  fenced,  will  take  the  child 
the  most  vigilantly  guarded,  the  youth  whose  life 
and  liealth  are  tlic  parent's  chief  solicitude,  tho 
maiden  on  whom  no  rough  blast  from  without 
has  ever  breathed.  In  these  mysterious  events, 
the  experience  of  every  year  and  month  proves 
over  and  over  again  that  "  the  race  is  not  to 
the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  tlie  strong  ;  neither 
yet  bread  to  the  Avise,  nor  yet  riches  to  men  of 
understanding,  nor  yet  favor  to  men  of  skill." 
All  that  remains  for  us  is  to  bow  in  trustful  sub- 
mission, and  to  say,  "  It  is  the  Lord,  —  let  him 


CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  rROVIDENCE.   297 

do  wliat  secmctli  to  him  good."  Tlicso  afllic- 
tioiis  arc  in  no  sense  of  our  own  procuring,  nor 
should  tlicy  he  rendered  one  wliit  more  sad  hy 
the  momentary  thought  that  we  could  have  pre- 
vented them.  They  arc  a  burden  beyond  our 
strength  ;  and  wc  should  give  liccd  to  the  exhor- 
tation, "  Cast  thy  burden  upon  the  Lord." 

Among  the  most  mysterious  and  appalling 
events  that  occur  under  the  Divine  government 
is  the  death  of  those  who  are  called  away  in 
opening  life,  and  with  endowments  of  mind  and 
character  which  give  the  best  promise  of  useful- 
ness and  happiness  in  this  world.*  Yet  how  es- 
sential it  is  that  the  young  should  sometimes  die ! 
Were  any  age  or  condition  exempt  from  the  fre- 
quent visitings  of  death,  it  would  be  divorced  to 
a  lamentable  degree  from  the  sense  of  accounta- 
bility, and  would  be  made  ahnost  accvirsed  be- 
cause the  powers  of  the  world  to  come  no  longer 
rested  upon  it.  Unutterably  sad  is  the  death, 
the  burial-scene,  of  the  young  wife  and  mother. 
But  by  means  of.  the  one  that  dies,  may  not 
a  multitude  of  the  living  be  kept  near  heaven 
while  surrounded  with  earthly  joy  and  hope,  led 
to  "  use  the  world  as  not  abusing  it,"  and  to 
make  duty  the  supreme  end  of  life  ?  Yes.  The 
shadow  of  death  sanctihes  hundreds  of  young 
homes  which  the  death-angel  may  not  enter  for 

*  This  and  tlie  following;  paragraph  Avcre  ^vritten  with  reference 
to  iudiviJuul  iustauccs  of  death  then  rcceut. 


298    CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  PROVIDENCE. 

many  years,  shields  the  guardians  of  their  peace 
and  purity  from  youthful  giddiness  and  frivolity, 
and  sustains  them  in  patient,  cheerful  duty  hy 
the  consciousness  that,  in  an  hour  when  they 
think  not,  the  Son  of  Man  may  come.  And  who 
need  the  admonishing  voice  from  early  graves, 
as  do  the  young  men  of  this  busy,  distracting, 
tempted  generation  ?  They  are  hard  by  the  quick- 
sands on  which  thousands  make  shipwreck.  For 
them  the  pestilence  walks  in  darkness.  Among 
them  destruction  wastes  at  noonday.  Appetite 
allures  them.  If  they  escape  it,  gain  holds  out 
its  gilded  bait.  Evil  examples  beset  them.  Sin, 
its  deformity  covered  up  by  its  stolen  mask  of 
joy,  encounters  them  at  every  street's  turn. 
Gates  of  spiritual  death  open  at  almost  every 
step  of  their  way.  Gulfs  of  perdition  yawn  for 
them  beneath  almost  every  footfall.  Well  is  it 
for  them  that  the  grave  should  sometimes  open 
near  them,  eternity  utter  its  voices,  and  the  cry 
come  from  the  death-bed  of  those  as  young  and 
as  sanguine  as  themselves,  ."  Prepare  to  meet 
your  God.  —  Know  ye  that  for  all  these  things 
God  will  bring  you  into  judgment." 

With  this  most  essential  ministry  to  the  living, 
there  are  many  aspects  in  which  the  deatli  of 
the  young  may  seem  a  peculiarly  merciful  aj> 
pointment.  How  often  do  avc  witness  the  early 
removal  of  tliose,  whose  tender  sensibilities  would 
have  made  the  necessary  exposures  and  conflicts 


CONTINGENT  EVENTS  AND  TROVIDENCE.    299 

of  life  intensely  severe !  God  calls  into  the  fold 
those  who  could  not  have  borne  the  bleak  winds 
of  the  mountain  pasture.  They  are  taken  from 
certain  sorrow  which  they  may  have  been  ill  fitted 
to  sustain,  —  from  cares  and  responsibilities  from 
which  they  would  have  shrunk  in  unconquerable 
timidity,  —  from  a  world  which  always  has  its 
crown  of  thorns  for  the  gentle,  retiring,  sensitive 
spirit.  When  we  see  how  easy  the  death-strug- 
gle is  often  made  for  those  early  summoned 
hence,  how  cheerfully  and  hopefully  they  sink 
to  rest,  how  readily  they  resign  the  cup  of  earth- 
ly joy  for  the  well-spring  in  the  heavenly  garden, 
we  cannot  but  feel  that  there  is  Divine  benignity 
in  the  mandate  that  calls  them  home. 


SEnilON  XXIII 


HEAVEN. 

IT  DOTII  KOT  TET  APPEAR  WHAT  WE  SHALL  BE  '.  BUT  TTB 
KNOW  TUAT,  WHEN  HE  SHALL  APPEAR,  WE  SHALL  BE 
LIKE  him;  for  we  shall  see  him  AS  HE  IS.  AND  EV- 
EKY  MAX  THAT  HATH  THIS  HOPE  IX  HIM  PURIFIETH  HIM- 
SELF,    EVEN    AS     HE     IS     PURE. —  1  Jollll  iu.  2,  3. 

Comparatively  little  is  mado  known  to  iis 
tliroiigli  the  Scriptures  concerning  the  life  of 
heaven  ;  and  tliat  little  is  given  us  chiefly  by  ma- 
terial imagery,  —  by  symbols  which  we  know  not 
how  to  interpret.  It  is  often  asked,  If  tlie  great 
object  of  the  GoFpcl  be  to  fit  us  for  heaven,  wliy 
is  not  a  fuller  revelation  of  its  joys  made  to  us  ? 
AVliy  are  we  not  enlightened  as  to  tlie  mode  and 
Liws  of  its  being  ?  Why  have  we  not  a  map  of 
the  celestial  city,  so  that  we  may  survey  before- 
hand the  mansions  in  the  Father's  house  made 
ready  for  us  ?  It  is  my  present  design  to  answer 
this  question,  and  to  show  tlie  consistency  of  tlie 
kind  and  degree  of  knowledge  vouchsafed  to  us 
on  this  su])ject  witli  tlie  Divine  wisdom  and  love. 

In  the  first  place,  were  the  future  life  fully  laid 


HEAVEN.  oOl 

open  to  us,  its  brightness  would  tlirow  the  pres- 
ent state  into  utter  eclipse,  and  make  our  cartlilj 
pilgrimage  irksome  and  grievous.  It  is  God's 
will  tliat  we  should  be  happy  here,  that  we  should 
love  life,  husband  it,  prolong  it,  and  yield  it  up 
only  at  tlie  manifest  demand  of  higher  duty  ;  and 
the  dimness  that  rests  on  the  future  makes  the 
best  men  willing  to  stay  here,  though  sure  of  hap- 
piness hereafter.  But  were  heaven  within  their 
clear  view,  tlieir  longing  to  depart  would  paralyze 
their  power  of  active  service  here,  render  them 
impatient  for  the  final  cliange,  and  turn  this  fair 
world  into  a  prison-house.  Now  there  is  enough 
revealed  to  feed  desire,  and  to  make  the  faithful 
soul  willing  to  obey  the  summons  hence  ;  while, 
in  the  idea  of  a  change,  and  in  the  uncertainty 
of  its  degree  and  circumstances,  the  Christian  is 
contented  to  await  his  time,  and  to  remain  on  a 
post  of  duty  where  he  can  see  and  know  what 
makes  him  happy.  The  natural  shrinking  from 
an  unknown  condition  of  being  sustains  an  inter- 
est in  tlie  present  life  in  the  hearts  of  those  best 
fitted  to  die,  while,  when  that  unknown  state  is 
at  hand,  their  confidence  in  the  Divine  mercy 
enables  them  to  enter  upon  it  without  doubt  or 
fear. 

Again,  the  representations  of  heaven  in  the 
Bible  are  such  as  to  adapt  the  inspired  record  to 
the  needs  of  all  classes  of  minds.  We  doubt  not 
that  the  life  of  heaven  is  spiritual.     AVe  expect 


302  HEAVEN. 

tlicrc  pleasures,  not  of  sense,  but  of  soul.  But 
the  Gospel  Avas  first  preached,  and  is  still  preached 
every  year,  to  multitudes  who  occupy  the  lowest 
plane  of  intelligence  and  culture.  It  goes  to  them 
in  their  coarseness  and  degradation  ;  and  in  that 
state  how  could  they  take  in  a  picture  of  spiritual 
joy  ?  With  their  undeveloped  moral  natures, 
how  could  they  feel  alarm  at  the  opposite  repre- 
sentations of  spiritual  suffering  and  agony  ?  But 
they  can  appreciate  the  material  imagery,  —  on 
the  one  hand,  the  golden  streets,  the  never-set- 
ting sun,  the  freedom  from  pain,  sickness,  and 
sorrow,  —  on  the  other,  the  darkness,  the  undy- 
ing worm,  the  unquenched  fire.  By  these  sym- 
bols their  fears  and  hopes  are  aroused.  They 
are  led  to  make  experiment  of  the  teachings  of 
Jesus.  They  learn  his  lessons  of  love  and  duty. 
They  are  born  into  the  spiritual  life.  Then,  with 
their  heart-experience  of  sorrow  for  sin,  and  of 
peace  and  joy  in  believing,  tliey  gradually  enter 
into  the  meaning  of  these  symbols,  and  identify 
heaven  with  the  purest  thoughts  and  best  affec- 
tions that  they  can  cherish.  Their  conceptions 
of  heaven  grow  with  their  characters.  While 
they  could  appreciate  only  outward  joy,  heaven 
was  to  them  merely  a  glorious  place.  As  they 
increase  in  spirituality,  it  becomes  less  a  place 
and  more  a  state.  It  represents  to  them  at  every 
stage  tlie  liigliest  point  that  they  have  reached, 
the  utmost  of  blessedness  tliat  they  can  appre- 
li.--\ 


HEAVEN.  303 

To  pass  to  another  topic,  I  would  ask,  Would 
not  any  detailed  description  of  tlie  life  to  come 
raise  more  questions  than  it  answered,  —  excite 
more  curiosity  than  it  gratified  ?  For  a  full  de- 
scription of  life  in  this  world,  what  countless  vol- 
umes must  be  written  to  portray  the  various  pro- 
fessions, tastes,  habits,  and  enjoyments  of  differ- 
ent ages,  classes,  and  nations !  And  can  the  life 
of  heaven  be  less  ricli  in  its  resources,  less  vari- 
ous in  its  pursuits  and  its  joys  ?  I  love  to  think 
of  it  as  infinitely  diversified,  as,  though  the  same, 
yet  different  to  every  soul.  I  believe  that  every 
direction  which  the  mind  can  take,  every  bent 
which  the  character  can  assume  under  the  guid- 
ance of  religion,  reaches  out  into  eternity.  There 
are  here  many  devout  inquirers  into  the  springs 
of  nature  and  the  mysteries  of  science.  Will  not 
the  broad  universe  be  open  to  their  survey,  so 
that  they  may  track  the  footprints  of  creative 
wisdom  from  world  to  world,  and  from  system  to 
system  ?  There  are  those  who  linger  with  pious 
reverence  on  the  records  of  Providence  in  long 
past  ages  and  vanished  generations.  May  not 
the  archives  of  a  past  eternity  be  spread  for 
their  research,  and  feed  their  adoration  and  love  ? 
There  have  been  prophets  to  whom  the  distant 
future  was  made  present ;  there  are  still  pro- 
phetic spirits  that  reverently  lift  the  veil  to  con- 
template developments  of  the  Divine  glory  in  ages 
to  come.     In  heaven  may  they  not  be  prophets 


304  HEAVEN. 

still,  watching  the  dawn,  and  to  less  far-sighted 
spirits  heralding  the  progress  of  new  dispensa- 
tions of  almighty  love  ?  There  are  tliose  in  whom 
the  imaginative  element  predominates  in  the  re- 
ligious life,  —  poets  by  the  gift  of  God, — capa- 
ble of  tracing  the  more  recondite  beauties  and 
harmonies  of  creation,  and  of  combining  its  scat- 
tered rays  of  benignity  and  glory.  May  not  a 
creative  fancy  in  heaven,  as  here,  be  the  faculty 
through  which  they  will  apprehend  the  Divine 
perfections,  pour  their  own  thank-offerings,  and 
lead  troops  of  kindred  spirits  in  the  chorus  of 
praise  ?  There  are  still  others,  whose  piety  takes 
tlie  direction  of  active,  energetic  philanthropy,  — 
men  whom  the  love  of  souls  inspires  for  the  most 
arduous  services  and  sacrifices.  May  not  they 
be  training  themselves  for  swift  angelic  ministries 
to  the  suffering  and  the  sinning  ?  May  it  not  be 
their  mission  to  repeat  the  message  of  the  Re- 
deemer's birth-song  till  the  last  wanderer  is  gath- 
ered into  the  fold,  and  there  is  glory  to  God,  and 
peace,  and  good-will  throughout  the  earth  and 
universe  ?  There  are,  again,  saintly  men,  ad- 
dicted to  a  quiet,  contemplative  devotion,  who, 
while  they  cannot  utter  the  awakening  word,  or 
speed  tlie  winged  arrow  of  truth,  bless  their  race 
by  the  example  of  a  Inavenly  spirit,  holy,  harm- 
less, undefded,  and  faithful.  Will  not  heaven 
give  them  the  repose  tliey  love,  —  the  rest  of 
pious  confidence,  and  calm,  blissful  adoration  ? 


HEAVEN.  305 

Thus  may  licavcn  provide  for  the  cultivation  of 
every  pure  taste  and  worthy  pursuit,  for  the 
unrestricted  exercise  of  every  class  of  spiritual 
endowments.  If  this  be  the  case,  how  could  the 
whole  be  written  out  in  a  volume  designed  for 
tlie  instruction  of  the  ignorant,  the  solace  of 
humble  toil,  the  wayfarer's  companion,  the  man- 
ual of  childhood,  the  staff  of  the  aged,  and  the 
hope  of  the  dying  ?  Or,  had  some  portions  of 
this  blessed  life  been  revealed,  and  some  threads 
of  our  earthly  existence  sliown  us  as  they  are 
woven  into  the  web  of  eternity,  it  could  only 
liave  awakened  doubt  and  despondency  in  those 
minds  on  whose  favorite  departments  of  thought 
and  duty  no  light  from  heaven  was  shed.  The 
silence  of  the  record  would  have  seemed  to  put 
a  ban  upon  tastes  which  they  could  not  help 
cherishing,  and  pursuits  which  they  could  not 
help  loving. 

But  while  for  these  reasons  a  specific  revela- 
tion Avith  regard  to  the  heavenly  life  Avas  not  to 
be  expected,  does  not  the  very  idea  of  immor- 
tality include  the  answers  to  many  of  the  ques- 
tions which  we  might  ask  the  most  anxiously  ? 
We  are  too  little  familiar  with  the  import  of  the 
seeming  truism,  that  it  is  we  ourselves  that  are 
to  bo  immortal.  Heaven  is  too  much  thought  of 
as  an  arbitrary  conferment,  by  wliich  we  become 
at  once  entirely  different  beings,  only  an  angel  in 
place  of  every  soul  redeemed  from  among  men, 

26* 


30  G  HEAVEN. 

like  tlie  troop  of  blessed  spirits  that  came,  one 
for  every  corpse  on  shipboard,  in  Coleridge's 
"  xVncient  Mariner."  It  is  this  idea  that  under- 
lies the  doctrine  of  immediate  heavenly  happi- 
ness for  the  abandoned  sinner,  who  certainly, 
in  his  own  person,  is  not  a  possible  subject  for 
such  happiness,  and  all  that  Omnipotence  could 
do  would  be  to  annihilate  him,  and  create  a  pure 
spirit  in  his  stead.  The  same  idea  appears  in  all 
our  scepticism  as  to  the  continuance  in  heaven 
of  anything  worthy  of  heaven  that  we  have  loved 
and  enjoyed  in  this  world.  If  we  are  the  same 
beings  there  as  here,  we  must  carry  with  us  the 
tastes,  affections,  and  habits  of  thinking  and  feel- 
ing, Avith  which  we  depart  this  life,  and  those  of 
them  which  can  find  scope  for  exercise  and  space 
for  growth  in  heaven  must  unfold  and  ripen  there. 
Thus  is  it  asked.  Will  friends  know  and  love  each 
other  there  ?  I  find  in  Scripture  many  hints  to- 
ward an  affirmative  answer  ;  but,  were  it  not  so, 
I  should  need  an  express  revelation  in  order  to 
make  me  believe  or  imagine  the  negative.  These 
earthly  affections  are  not  only  an  essential  part 
of  our  nature,  but  are  indissolubly  interwoven 
Avith  our  religious  characters.  Every  element  of 
faith  and  piety,  every  act  of  prayer  and  praise, 
is  associated  with  the  parents,  teachers,  and  ex- 
emplars, wlio  have  helped  to  form  our  charac- 
ters, —  with  those  who  liave  joined  us  in  worsliip, 
sustained  us  in  our  conflicts,  consoled  us  in  our 


HEAVEN.  307 

sorrows,  united  with  us  in  the  commemoration  of 
redeeming  love.  To  tear  them  from  our  hearts 
would  be  to  lacerate  every  fibre  of  the  spirit- 
ual life.  These  affections  grow,  too,  with  our 
growth  in  piety.  I  feel  assured,  therefore,  that 
tlie  change  which  brings  us  into  more  intimate 
union  with  our  God  and  our  Saviour  must  also 
render  our  social  affections  purer  and  more  fer- 
vent. In  like  manner,  I  would  say  of  every  trait 
of  mind  and  heart,  which  can  grow  with  the 
growth  of  character,  which  at  once  ministers  to 
the  religious  sentiment  and  is  cherished  by  it, 
that  it  must  needs  be  indestructible.  The  per- 
petuity of  whatever  can  live  and  find  appropriate 
nourishment  in  heaven  is  involved  in  the  doctrine 
of  immortality,  and,  so  far  from  needing  express 
revelation  to  prove  it,  I  should  demand  for  its 
disproof  the  clearest  Scriptural  testimony. 

In  addition  to  what  has  been  said,  I  would  sug- 
gest, that  much  may  have  been  left  unrevealed 
with  regard  to  heaven,  in  order  to  furnish  room 
for  the  highest  exercise  of  the  imagination.  Im- 
agination is  not  among  the  faculties  which  relig- 
ion aims  to  suppress  ;  but  under  the  auspices  of 
faith,  it  only  assumes  a  broader  range,  and  wings 
a  loftier  flight.  Yet  its  realm  is  always  that  of 
tlie  dimly  seen  and  partially  known.  It  shuns 
the  region  of  definite  outline  and  circumstantial 
detail.  "Were  heaven  all  revealed,  heaven  woidd 
proffer  no  room  for  its  creations,  and  it  would 


'308  HEAVEN. 

remain,  in  the  devout  as  in  the  irreligious,  an 
earth-bounded  faculty,  tempting  the  soul  to  grov- 
el below,  instead  of  bearing  it  aloft.  It  seems  to 
me  tliat  the  Scriptural  representations  of  the  life 
to  come  are  precisely  adapted  to  make  fancy  the 
handmaid  of  devotion.  Enough  is  revealed  to 
give  fixedness  and  certainty  to  the  idea  of  heav- 
en. We  have  the  great  outlines  of  its  life,  the 
staple  of  its  duties  and  its  joys.  But  the  sacred 
writers  hardly  begin  to  fill  in  these  outlines. 
Their  specifications  are  few  and  meagre.  They 
tell  us  of  tlie  sea  of  glass,  the  great  white  throne, 
the  marriage-supper  of  the  Lamb,  the  white  robes, 
the  golden  harps,  —  imagery  that  brings  over  the 
soul  multitudinous  and  transporting  thoughts  of 
splendor,  glory,  joy,  purity,  and  praise.  But  who 
can  map  with  literal  exactness  the  blissful  scene 
to  which  these  symbols  point  ?  or  to  what  two  in- 
dependent minds  can  they  suggest  the  same  com- 
bination of  the  elements  of  joy  ?  We  are  sup- 
plied, as  it  were,  with  the  unshaped  materials, 
witli  which  fancy  may  rear  and  furnish  its  own 
lieavenly  mansion.  We  are  to  take  the  pencil  into 
our  own  hands,  and  to  create  the  future  of  our 
hope  from  the  colors  whicli  inspiration  has  thrown 
in  res})lendent  masses  upon  the  palette.  "  It  doth 
not  yet  appear  what  we  sliall  be  "  ;  but  no  pure 
and  lofty  imaginhig  need  droop  in  doubt,  nor  need 
we  fear  to  let  the  future  grow  more  and  more 
definite  under  successive  touches ;   for,  however 


HEAVEN.  309 

bold  the  reach  of  fancy,  wo  arc  assured  that  God 
has  reserved  for  us  more  and  better  than  it  has 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive.  Here, 
then,  we  have  a  boundless  field  for  contempla- 
tions, through  which  our  faith  may  be  kept  con- 
stantly on  the  increase  ;  for  none  believe  in  heav- 
en so  firmly  as  those  whose  imaginations  are  the 
most  aspiring,  within  the  outlines,  yet  beyond 
the  details,  of  positive  revelation.  Burning  cu- 
riosity with  regard  to  the  future,  the  longing  to 
know  more  and  to  feel  more  of  its  unrevealed 
realities,  detaches  the  soul  from  earthly  vanities, 
shields  it  against  temptation,  sheds  over  it  in  its 
conflicts  and  its  trials  more  and  more  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  heaven.  And  when  a  dear  friend 
is  passing  or  has  passed  behind  the  veil,  what  a 
solemn  interest  attaches  itself  to  the  thought  of 
his  personal  experience  of  what  we  still  behold 
so  faintly  !  IIow  near  we  come  to  heaven,  as 
we  strive  to  lift  the  veil,  as  we  imagine  his  wel- 
come to  the  society  of  the  blessed,  his  glad  amaze- 
ment at  the  disclosures  of  eternity,  his  strains  of 
adoration,  his  shining  path  of  duty,  his  beatific 
vision  of  the  Redeemer,  his  all-pervading  con- 
sciousness of  the  Divine  presence,  the  merging 
of  his  dying  prayer  in  praise,  of  his  parting  sigh 
in  joy  unutterable  and  eternal !  I  have  been 
deeply  impressed  with  the  beauty  and  power  of 
these  contemplations  of  heaven  in  reading  the 
Life  and   Letters   of  John   Foster,  the   English 


310  HEAVEN. 

essayist,  one  of  the  most  saintly  men  that  ever 
lived,  the  records  of  whose  years  of  decline  and 
infirmity  make  me  feel  as  if  he  stood  already  on 
the  delectable  mountains,  saw  across  the  river 
of  deatli  the  gates  of  the  celestial  city,  and  heard 
the  "  harpers  harping  with  their  harps."  I  must 
indulge  myself  in  quoting  from  one  of  his  letters 
to  a  friend  of  nearly  half  a  century's  standing, 
then  at  the  point  of  death  in  a  distant  city. 

"  To  me  a  little  stage  farther  remains  under 
the  darkness ;  you,  my  dear  friend,  have  a  clear 
sight  almost  to  the  concluding  point.  And 
while  I  feel  the  deepest  pensiveness  in  behold- 
ing wdiere  you  stand,  with  but  a  step  between 
you  and  death,  I  cannot  but  emphatically  con- 
gratulate you 

"  But,  0  my  dear  friend,  whither  is  it  that  you 
are  going  ?  Where  is  it  that  you  will  be  a  few 
short  weeks  or  days  hence  ?  I  have  affecting 
cause  to  think  and  to  wonder  concerning  that 
unseen  world  ;  to  desire,  were  it  permitted  to 
mortals,  one  glimpse  of  that  mysterious  econ- 
omy, to  ask  innumerable  questions  to  which 
there  is  no  answer,  —  what  is  the  manner  of 
existence,  —  of  employment,  —  of  society,  —  of 
remembrance, —  of  anticipation,  —  of  all  the  sur- 
rounding revelations  to  our  departed  friends  ? 
How  striking  to  think  that  67/e,*   so   long  and 

*  Refening  to  his  wife  recently  deceased. 


HEAVEN.  311 

SO  recently  with  mo  here,  so  beloved,  but  now 
so  totally  withdrawn  and  absent,  —  that  she  ex- 
perimentally knows  all  that  I  am  in  vain  in- 
quiring ! 

"  And  a  little  while  hence,  you,  my  friend, 
will  be  an  object  of  the  same  solemn  medita- 
tions and  wondering  inquiries.  It  is  most  strik- 
ing to  consider,  —  to  realize  the  idea,  —  that 
yoUy  to  whom  I  am  writing  these  lines,  who 
continue  yet  among  mortals,  who  are  on  this 
side  of  the  awful  and  mysterious  veil,  —  that 
you  will  be  in  the  midst  of  these  grand  reali- 
ties, beholding  the  marvellous  manifestations, 
amazed  and  transported  at  your  new  and  hap- 
py condition  of  existence,  while  your  friends 
are  feeling  the  pensiveness  of  your  absolute 
and  final  absence,  and  thinking  how,  but  just 
now,  as  it  were,  you  were  with  them. 

"  But  we  must  ourselves  follow  you  to  see 
what  it  is  that  the  emancipated  spirits  avIio 
have  obtained  their  triumph  over  death  and  evil 
through  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  find  awaiting 
them  in  that  nobler  and  happier  realm  of  the 
great  Master's  empire 

"  It  is  a  delightful  thing  to  be  assured,  on  the 
authority  of  revelation,  of  the  perfect  conscious- 
ness, tlie  intensely  awakened  faculties,  and  all  the 
capacities  and  causes  of  felicity  in  that  mysteri- 
ous, separate  state  ;  and  on  the  same  evidence, 
together  with  every  other   rational   probability, 


312  HEAVEN. 

to  be  confident  of  the  reunion  of  those  who  have 
loved  one  another  and  their  Lord  on  earth 

"  I  know  that  I  shall  partake  of  your  kindest 
wishes  and  remembrance  in  your  prayers,  —  the 
few  more  prayers  you  have  yet  to  offer  before 
you  go.  IVIien  I  may  follow  you,  and,  I  earnest- 
ly hope,  to  rejoin  you  in  a  far  better  world,  must 
be  left  to  a  decision  that  cannot  at  the  most  be 
very  remote ;  for  yesterday  completed  my  sixty- 
third  year 

"  But  you,  my  friend,  have  accomplished  your 
business,  —  your  Lord's  business  on  earth.  Go, 
then,  willing  and  delighted  at  his  call. 

"  Here  I  conclude,  with  an  affecting  and  sol- 
emn consciousness  that  I  am  speaking  to  you  for 
the  last  time  in  this  world.  Adieu  !  then,  my 
ever  dear  and  faithful  friend.  Adieu  —  for  a 
while  !  May  I  meet  you  erelong  where  we  shall 
never  more  say  farewell !  '* 

In  view  of  such  a  parting,  we  might  well  ask. 
What  more  can  we  need?  Could  the  clearest 
vision  of  heaven  inspire  a  more  elastic  faith,  a 
more  sublime  confidence  ?  Nay,  does  not  the 
very  dimness  that  rests  upon  the  future  world 
impart  added  grandeur  to  the  spectacle  of  these 
two  old  men  interchanging  their  greetings  on  its 
confines,  with  entire  certainty  that  they  will  soon 
be  renewed  in  the  house  not  made  with  hands  ? 

There  may  be  yet  another  reason  why  we 
have  so  little  detailed  information  with  regard 


HEAVEN.  313 

to  heaven.  There  is  no  doubt  much  which  we 
could  not  know,  —  for  which  human  speech  fur- 
nishes no  words.  Language  is  the  daughter  of 
experience.  It  speaks  of  what  we  know,  testi- 
fies of  what  we  have  seen,  and  can  convey  to  us 
nothing,  the  elements  of  which  have  not  in  some 
form  entered  into  our  experience.  It  can  give 
the  blind  no  idea  of  colors,  or  the  deaf  of  sounds. 
Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  the  future  life 
our  mode  of  being,  of  perception,  of  recognition, 
of  communication,  will  be  essentially  different 
from  what  it  is  here,  and  perhaps  so  different  that 
nothing  within  our  earthly  experience  could  fur- 
nish terms  for  its  description.  St.  Paul's  phrase 
with  reference  to  it,  "  a  spiritual  body,"  is  still 
uninterpreted,  and  involves  a  mystery,  which 
"  the  great  teacher,  Death, "  alone  can  solve. 
All  that  we  can  say  is,  that  it  may  denote  some 
freer,  more  ethereal  embodiment  of  the  soul,  — 
some  mode  of  existence  midway  between  that  of 
Ilim,  who  is  emphatically  a  Spirit,  and  our  pres- 
ent gross  material  forms  ;  but  of  such  a  state  of 
being  we  can  have  no  conception  prior  to  ex- 
perience. St.  Paul  says  that  in  his  vision  of 
heaven  he  "  heard  unspeakable  words,  which  it 
is  not  lawful  [or  rather,  is  not  possible]  for  a  man 
to  utter, "  undoubtedly  referring,  not  to  any  ex- 
press prohibition,  but  to  the  essential  poverty 
and  inadequacy  of  language,  which  forbade  the| 
disclosure. 

27 


314  HEAVEN. 

But,  with  all  our  ignorance,  we  have  full  assur- 
ance on  one  point,  and  that  the  most  essential  to 
our  present  improvement  and  happiness.  ''  When 
God  shall  appear,"  shall  draw  near  the  soul  in 
death  and  judgment,  "  we  shall  be  like  him." 
And  if  like  him,  like  Jesus,  his  express  image, 
whose  heart  is  all  laid  open  to  us,  whose  traits  of 
spiritual  beauty  and  excellence  are  within  our 
clear  view.  To  be  like  Christ,  —  need  we  know, 
could  we  ask  more  ?  Were  we  fully  like  him 
now,  it  would  be  heaven  here,  —  heaven  under 
burdens,  trials,  crosses  numberless,  —  heaven, 
though  the  world  around  us  were  filled  with  vio- 
lence. This  one  idea  outweighs  all  the  material 
imagery,  which  St.  John  has  heaped  up  like  a 
mountain  of  gold  and  precious  stones  on  which 
we  may  climb  to  get  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  It 
did  so  in  his  view  ;  for  the  form  of  the  Redeemer 
is  foremost  in  every  scene  of  his  vision.  He  is 
the  light  of  the  golden  city,  the  object  of  hom- 
age to  the  adoring  host.  They  sing  his  song  on 
the  sea  of  glass.  It  is  he  who  leads  them  by 
living  fountains  of  waters,  and  they  "  follow  the 
Lamb  whithersoever  he  goetli." 

Our  text  gives  us  yet  another  trait  of  the  life 
of  heaven.  ^' We  shall  see  God  as  he  is,"  —  shall 
see  liim  as  Jesus  ever  saw  him,  —  shall  enter  in- 
to the  depth  of  significance  that  lay  in  his  lieart 
when  he  said,  ^'  My  Father."  Here  we  behold 
God  chiefly  through  outward  forms  of  his  crea- 


HEAVEN.  315 

tion  and  agents  of  his  Providence ;  and,  though 
in  our  seasons  of  higliest  devotion  clearer  and 
fuller  views  of  his  character  dawn  upon  our  souls, 
we  find  it  hard  to  retain  or  recall  them.  There, 
through  what  mode  of  manifestation  we  know  not, 
but  undoubtedly  through  the  more  intimate  con- 
nection which  unembodied  spirits  may  have  with  . 
the  Infinite  Spirit,  we  shall  be  brought  into  a 
communion  with  him,  corresponding  in  its  clear- 
ness and  continuity  to  our  face-to-face  converse 
with  one  another. 

Our  text  adds,  —  "Every  man  that  hath  this 
hope  in  him  purifieth  himself,  even  as  God  is 
pure.'*  The  heaven  of  the  New  Testament  de- 
mands prepared  and  congenial  spirits.  What  ele- 
ment of  happiness  does  it  offer  to  the  impure,  the 
resentful,  the  worldly,  the  sensual,  the  frivolous  ? , 
What  has  it  that  can  attract  the  heart  which  loves 
not  God,  and  seeks  not  to  be  like  him  ?  Every  \ 
thought  of  heaven  impresses  upon  us  tlie  need  of 
a  closer  walk  with  God  on  earth.  If  there  we 
are  to  be  like  him,  we  must  have  grown  like  him 
here.  If  there  we  are  to  see  him  as  he  is,  we 
must  have  already  drawn  nigh  to  him  in  prayer 
and  praise,  and  lived  near  him  in  daily  obedience 
and  devotion.  Then  may  we  greet  death  in  tones 
of  solemn  welcome,  and  say,  "  Thou  comest  not 
to  destroy,  but  to  crown  my  hopes.  Thy  dark 
wing  shall  waft  my  spirit  to  Him  whom  not  hav- 
ing seen  I  love,  and  in  whose  nearer  presence  is 
joy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory." 


SERMON   XXIY. 


THE  HEAVENLY  VINE-DEESSER. 

EVERT    BRANCH    THAT     BEARETH    FRUIT    HE    PURGETH     [i.     6. 

PRUNETh]  IT,  THAT    IT  MAY    BRING    FORTH   MORE   FRUIT. 

John   XV.  2. 

Jesus  and  his  Apostles  were  walking  at  mid- 
night on  the  vine-embowered  path  that  led  to  the 
Mount  of  Olives.  The  full  moon  shone  on  rich 
clusters  of  grapes  loading  every  tendril,  and  al- 
ready far  advanced  toward  maturity.  What  a 
contrast  between  the  verdure  and  fruitfulness 
that  overhung  their  steps,  and  the  vanished,  with- 
ered hopes  that  made  the  hearts  of  the  disciples 
sad  and  desolate !  Not  thus,  however,  had  the 
vines  on  the  hill  and  by  the  road-side  looked  a 
few  weeks  before.  Under  the  vine-dresser's  hand, 
in  the  very  infancy  of  that  year's  life,  they  had 
sustained  seemingly  rude  and  merciless  mutila- 
tion. The  lower  shoots  had  been  lopped  off; 
the  luxuriance  of  the  last  year's  growth  had 
been  pruned ;  and  amputated  stocks,  bald,  bare 
branches,  had  projected  their  unsightly  outlines 


THE    HEAVENLY   YINE-DRESSER.  317 

against  the  rocks  and  the  sky.     Had  the  pruning 
been  less  thorough,  the  clusters  would  not  have 
hung   so   thick   or   so  rich;  and  the   neglected 
vines,  yielding  grapes  worthy  neither  of  the  table 
nor  the  vintage,  would  have  been  fit  only  to  be 
trampled  under  foot  or  cast  into  the  fire.     The 
sap,  that  would  have  flowed  to  waste  through  the 
lower  tendrils,  had  souglit  the  topmost  branches. 
The  vital  energy,  that  would  have  been  exhaust- 
ed in  useless  foliage,  had  elaborated  the  bud, 
the  blossom,  and  the  grape.     "  Thus,"   says  our 
Saviour  in  the  beautiful  parable  which  gives  us 
our  text,  "  thus  will  it  be  with  you,  as  the  heav- 
enly vine-dresser  applies  the  pruning-knife  of  be- 
reavement and   desolation   to  your  fearful  and 
anxious  spirits.     You  have  clung  to  my  earthly 
presence.     You  dread  desertion,  contempt,  and 
persecution.     You  cannot  brook  the  thought  of 
what  awaits  you  on  the  morrow.     But  did  I  re- 
main at  your  side  to  anticipate  your  wants,  to 
meet  danger  in  your  stead,  and  to  confine  to  my 
local  and  material  presence  the  thoughts,  affec- 
tions, and  aspirations  that  ought  to  mount  heav- 
enward,  the    Comforter  would  not  come,  your 
higher  natures  would  lack  their  full  development, 
your  lives  would  bear  little  of  the  fruit  which  I 
have  chosen  and  ordained  you  that  ye  should 
bear.     But  if  I  go  home  to  the  Father,  and  leave 
you  to  a  straitened  and  afflicted  lot  upon  earth, 
the  tendrils  of  your  nature  that  cling  to  earthly 

27* 


318  THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER. 

supports  being  lopped  away,  your  souls,  like  the 
noble  vine,  will  send  out  their  shoots  heaven- 
Avard,  laden  with  the  ripening  fruits  of  trust, 
love,  and  self-denying  virtue.  The  knife  indeed 
cuts  to  the  quick ;  but  it  is  in  the  hand  of  my 
Father  and  your  Father,  who,  because  the  vine 
has  begun  to  bear  fruit,  prunes  it  that  it  may 
bring  forth  more  fruit." 

It  seems  to  me,  my  friends,  that  there  is  no 
text  in  the  Bible  richer  in  beautiful  significance, 
in  comfort  and  encouragement,  than  that  which 
I  have  chosen  this  morning.  It  presents  one  of 
those  perfect  analogies  between  the  outward  and 
the  spiritual  universe,  which  could  have  been 
drawn  only  by  him  whose  prerogative  it  was  to 
"  take  the  things  of  God  and  show  them  unto 
men,"  but  which,  when  suggested,  we  can  all 
appreciate  and  feel.  My  text  has  of  late  been 
brought  forcibly  to  my  mind  by  conversations  with 
some  of  you,  with  whom  I  could  see  that  it  had 
been  verified  in  the  quickening  impulses  given  to 
pious  feeling  and  holy  resolution  by  severe  do- 
mestic bereavement.  Yet  it  has  its  significance 
and  fulfilment  not  only  at  distinctly  marked 
epochs  of  sorrow,  but  equally  in  the  common 
experience  of  life,  as  we  pass  from  youth  to 
manhood  or  womanhood,  and  thence  to  the  me- 
ridian or  the  decline  of  our  earthly  pilgrimage. 

1.  The  principle  of  our  text  is  verified  in  the 
gradual  contraction  of  our  earthly  horizon  as  we 


THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER.  319 

advance  in  life.  The  youth  sees  the  whole  world 
before  him.  The  fruit  of  all  the  trees  in  the  gar- 
den hangs  in  his  sight,  and  he  seems  to  hear  the 
voice,  "  Of  every  tree  thou  mayest  eat."  His 
whole  future  is  dim  indeed,  but  hopeful.  He 
forms  large  plans,  cherishes  largo  desires.  His 
purposes,  his  efforts,  reach  out  in  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent directions.  Pleasure,  business,  honor,  pros- 
perity, domestic  joy,  social  advantages,  all  seem 
within  his  grasp.  With  vast  longings,  and  with 
the  direction  of  his  life  still  undetermined,  his 
spiritual  industry,  however  sincere,  is  liable  to  be 
dissipated ;  and,  did  this  condition  last  long,  his 
character  would  remain  unformed,  his  principles 
feeble,  his  moral  attainments  low  and  unsatis- 
fying. But,  even  without  the  consciousness  of 
disappointment  on  his  part,  Providence  early  ai> 
plies  the  pruning-knife.  He  is  confined  within 
some  single  walk  of  industry,  —  has  one  estab- 
lished home,  sphere  of  duty,  circle  of  friends,  and 
round  of  enjoyments.  His  place  in  the  social 
scale,  the  modicum  of  success  and  honor  within 
his  reach,  is  determined.  Bounds,  over  which 
he  cannot  pass,  are  set  to  his  earthly  life.  Yet 
within  those  bounds  his  desires  and  active  pow- 
ers are  not  only  strong  as  ever,  but  have  suj> 
])lanted  the  spasmodic,  impulsive  energy  of  youth 
by  a  maturer  and  more  sustained  vigor.  And 
has  he  the  principle  of  duty,  the  love  of  God,  in 
his  heart  ?     Then  must  the  life,  limited  in  every 


320  THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER. 

earthward  direction,  mount  heavenward.  The 
stream  pent  up  must  rise  toward  its  source. 
The  desires  must  gravitate  toward  objects  tliat 
promise  them  satisfaction ;  and,  if  they  have  be- 
gun to  seek  God  and  heaven,  the  epoch  when 
they  are  made  to  feel  tlie  finiteness  and  insuffi- 
ciency of  all  lower  good  must  be  the  time  when 
tlicy  seize  on  the  divine  and  infinite,  with  a  grasp 
too  tenacious  ever  to  be  relaxed.  The  active 
powers  crave  an  unlimited  field  for  their  activ- 
ity ;  and,  if  they  have  learned  to  labor  for  the 
souVs  well-being,  then  the  experience  of  their 
earthly  limitation  must  direct  tlieir  whole  energy 
to  the  sphere  where  they  can  never  be  cramped 
or  baffled. 

In  point  of  fact,  it  is  precisely  at  this  period  of 
life  that  we  often  witness  the  most  rapid  growth 
of  character,  —  its  growth  in  evil  no  less  than  in 
good.  The  dispositions  and  traits  of  cliaracter, 
which  one  manifests  at  his  very  entrance  upon 
the  cares  and  duties  of  active  business  or  of  do- 
mcj^tic  life,  soon  and  fast  acquire  a  fixedness  and 
depth  whicli  render  essential  change  exceedingly 
improbable.  And  where  a  right  direction  lias 
been  taken  in  childhood  or  youth,  it  is  amazing 
witli  wliat  sudden  maturity  we  often  see  a  young 
man  or  woman  clotlied,  so  that  the  person,  wlio 
out  of  tlie  immediate  home  circle  had  seemed  a 
mere  cipher,  becomes  at  once,  on  assuming  an 
independent  position  in  life,  a  centre  of  benefi- 


THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER.  321 

cent  influence,  a  burninf^  and  sliining  light,  an 
ornament  to  society,  a  pillar  in  the  Church  of 
Christ.  All  this  takes  place,  indeed,  not  without 
vigorous  and  devout  self-discipline,  yet  through 
the  instrumentality  of  that  Providence  which 
pruned  the  already  fruitful  branch  that  it  might 
bring  forth  more  fruit. 

2.  Our  text  is  equally  verified  in  connection 
with  the  inevitable  disappointments  of  maturer 
years.  I  refer  not  now  to  such  disappointments 
as  attract  the  notice  and  sympathy  of  others,  and 
go  by  the  name  of  trials  and  sorrows,  but  to  a 
much  larger  class,  concealed  from  general  obser- 
vation, and  even  from  the  most  friendly  eye.  Of 
the  buds  on  the  tree  of  life,  many  more  drop  than 
blossom.  But  few  of  our  expectations  are  real- 
ized, and  those  few  but  partially  ;  or,  if  they  keep 
their  promise  to  the  sense,  they  break  it  to  the 
heart,  and  success  or  joy  in  fruition  falls  far  short 
of  what  it  had  seemed  in  prospect.  Even  after 
the  day-dreams  of  youth  have  ceased,  we  almost 
all  set  for  ourselves  a  much  higher  mark  than 
we  reach.  We  aim  at  wealth,  and  secure  a  bare 
competence.  We  look  for  eminence,  and  rise  not 
above  mediocrity.  We  lay  well-matured  plans, 
and  they  are  defeated  we  hardly  know  how. 
We  strive  for  influence,  and  find  wills  that  refuse 
to  yield  to  our  argument  or  persuasion.  Wo 
depend  on  co-operation,  and  our  helpers  drop 
away  in  the  hour  of  need.      AVe  look  forward  to 


322  THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER. 

this  or  tliat  epoch  of  felicity,  —  it  comes,  but 
lirings  as  much  care  as  joy.  We  say  to  ourselves, 
"  Let  me  only  attain  this  or  that  stage  of  success, 
and  I  am  content,  "  —  we  reach  it,  and  find  that 
it  has  not  advanced  our  happiness  one  jot,  but 
only  created  new  cravings.  In  all  pursuits  that 
begin  and  end  in  this  life,  it  is  as  if  we  were 
drawhig  water  in  sieves ;  and  for  the  brimming 
cup  that  we  mean  to  fill,  how  often  do  we  pour 
into  it  only  a  few  scanty  drops  !  And  he  who  has 
not  found  access  to  the  water  of  life  keeps  on 
drawing  with  his  sieve  at  the  broken  cistern. 
But  have  we  learned  the  way  to  the  well-spring, 
and  taken  our  first  draught  of  its  living  waters  ? 
Then  all  this  experience  of  earthly  disappoint- 
ment leads  our  souls  to  a  more  constant  resort  to 
the  source  of  unfailing  joy.  We  find  that  we 
were  not  made  to  realize  full  satisfaction  in  this 
world,  —  that 

"  The  choicest  pleasure  earth  can  give 
Will  stai-ve  the  hungry  mind." 

And  then  there  reaches  us  from  every  earthly 
scene  the  invitation,  — 

"  Come,  and  the  Lord  will  feed  your  souls 
With  more  substantial  meat, 
With  such  as  saints  in  glory  love, 
With  such  as  angels  eat." 

Think  not  that  I  speak  of  this  discipline  of 
constant  disappointment  in  the  tone  of  complaint. 
To  my  mind  there  could  be  no  arrangement  so 
merciful  for  immortal  beings,  strangers  on  earth, 


THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER.  323 

invited  citizens  of  a  better  country.  Did  every 
thing  i)rospcr  to  our  minds,  did  attainment  always 
answer  to  expectation,  and  fruition  equal  hope, 
rarely  would  our  thoughts  and  efforts  rise  above 
the  passing  scene.  In  the  certainty  with  whicli 
"we  could  calculate  on  earthly  joy,  we  should 
lose  all  desire  of  heavenly  blessedness.  But  now, 
■while  God  gives  us  outward  blessings  enough  to 
make  our  pilgrimage  a  happy  one,  in  the  perpet- 
ual disproportion  between  what  we  seek  and  what 
we  attain,  between  what  we  hope  and  what  we 
enjoy,  he  is  constantly  saying  to  us,  "  Arise  and 
depart,  for  this  is  not  your  rest."  If  we  have 
once  turned  our  faces  heavenward,  heaven  gains 
upon  our  affections  by  every  hold  which  our  spir- 
its lose  upon  the  passing  world.  It  is  through 
the  discipline  of  daily  disappointment  that  our 
souls  grow  in  the  love  of  God  and  the  life  of  duty. 
The  more  we  feel  the  uncertainty  of  all  outward 
dependence  and  hope,  the  more  does  that  hidden 
life  which  we  lead  with  God,  that  peace  which 
the  world  could  not  give  and  cannot  take  away, 
develop  itself  in  our  hearts.  Thanks,  then,  to 
the  heavenly  vine-dresser,  who  daily  prunes  the 
lower  branches  of  the  vine,  that  its  sap  may  rise 
in  an  ever  fuller  current  to  those  topmost  boughs 
where  the  clusters  all  ripen  for  heaven. 

3.  Our  text  is  also  verified  painfully,  yet  joyful- 
ly, in  comiection  with  those  severe  bereavements, 
which  are  the  lot  of  all,  and  which,  grievous 


324:  THE    HEAVENLY   VINE-DRESSER. 

as  Ave  find  them,  are  no  doubt,  in  God's  eye, 
the  Christian's  privilege.  Probably  there  are 
none  who  cherish  so  firm  a  faith  in  a  Providence 
always  kind,  as  those  discii^les  of  Christ  who 
have  sustained  the  heaviest  losses  in  the  circle 
of  their  kindred  and  affection.  They  have  felt 
these  losses  only  the  more  severely  for  their  re- 
ligious faith ;  for  it  is  the  office  of  religion  to 
make  love  more  tender,  and  to  strengthen  the 
bonds  of  kindred.  But  every  sorrow  has  opened 
to  them  new  sources  of  spiritual  strength,  has 
drawn  them  into  closer  communion  with  God, 
has  made  thoughts  of  heaven  dearer  and  more 
constant,  has  removed  weights  from  their  spirits 
and  clogs  from  their  feet  in  the  way  of  duty,  has 
enabled  them  to  run  with  new  vigor  and  perse- 
verance the  race  that  is  set  before  them,  and 
brought  them  into  more  intimate  converse  with 
Ilim  whom  they  follow  in  trial  and  suffering, 
that  they  may  partake  of  his  victory  and  his 
glory. 

But  in  order  tliat  this  discipline  of  sorrow 
should  perform  its  due  office,  there  must  first  be 
a  preparation  of  spirit.  Affliction  does  not,  so 
often  as  is  supposed,  lead  to  the  formation  of 
the  religious  character,  though  Avhen  it  is  once 
formed,  it  never  fails,  I  believe,  to  minister  to 
its  rapid  growth.  It  often  gives  expression  and 
firmness  to  principles  that  were  feeble,  to  resolu- 
tions that  were  faint,  to  an  embryo  piety  which 


THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER.  325 

tlie  cares  and  joys  of  unbroken  prosperity  might 
have  suppressed  and  withered.  It  fixes  the  re- 
ligious purpose  which  had  previously  flickered 
and  wavered.  It  fastens  on  God  the  trust  and 
love  which  had  been  partly  his,  yet  much  divided 
and  often  turned  aside.  It  rebukes  and  chastens 
away  sins  which  had  checked  the  spirit  of  prayer, 
and  precluded  the  full  enjoyment  of  religious 
peace.  Often,  too,  can  the  afflicted  bear  testi- 
mony that  the  stroke  of  a  bereaving  Providence 
came  just  when  it  was  most  needed, —  at  that 
stage  of  progress  when  some  decisive  experience 
was  essential,  to  fix  the  choice,  to  give  a  perma- 
nent direction  to  the  thoughts  and  affections,  to 
put  tlie  seal  to  tlie  holiest  vows  and  loftiest  pur- 
poses, to  write  the  sentence  of  inviolable  conse- 
cration on  the  whole  coming  life. 

Yes,  to  the  eyes  of  the  heavenly  witnesses  that 
compass  our  path,  these  afflictions  from  the  Divine 
liand  seem  to  fall,  not  in  desolating  showers,  but 
to  drop  as  the  gentle  rain  and  to  distil  like  the 
quiet  dew  on  the  plants  of  our  Father's  planting, 
reviving  that  which  was  ready  to  perish,  and 
ripening  fruits  to  be  garnered  in  heaven.  While 
wo  remain  on  earth,  indeed,  our  sense  of  loss  and 
loneliness  may  never  suffer  us  to  carry  our  resig- 
nation to  the  point  of  thanksgiving  for  these  sor- 
rows. But  I  cannot  doubt  that,  when  in  a  better 
world  the  innocent  and  holy  who  have  been  taken 
from  us  shall  be  again  united  with  us,  we  shall 

28 


326  THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER. 

look  back  on  these  afflictive  mercies  as  among 
the  choicest  blessings  of  a  benignant  Providence, 
and  shall  own,  with  a  fuller  evidence  than  we 
are  now  conscious  of,  that  the  Father  of  our 
spirits  pruned  the  already  fruitful  plants  in  his 
vineyard,  only  that  they  might  bring  forth  more 
fruit. 

Such,  then,  is  the  course  of  Providence  for 
our  growth  in  duty  and  in  piety.  I  close  by  sug- 
gesting one  obvious  inference  from  the  train  of 
thought  in  which  I  have  led  you,  namely,  the 
rich  advantage,  the  priceless  privilege,  of  early 
piety.  It  is  for  the  culture  and  sanctification  of 
our  immortal  natures,  that  the  whole  system  un- 
der which  we  live  is  arranged.  God's  course  of 
discipline  with  every  individual  is  precisely  that 
which  he  needs  for  the  development  and  per- 
fection of  his  character.  The  successive  stages 
of  our  outward  experience  are  the  successive 
schools,  lower  and  higher,  in  which  we  are  to  be 
trained  for  heaven.  How  essential,  then,  that  we 
should  begin  with  the  first  of  the  series,  and  gain 
the  teachings  of  each  and  all  !  Under  what  im- 
mense disadvantages  must  we  enter  on  the  later 
stages  of  the  course,  if  the  instruction  and  disci- 
pline of  its  earlier  portions  have  been  slighted 
and  neglected  !  What  an  inconceivable  loss  is 
that  of  any  part  of  a  probation  season,  in  which 
God  himself  deigns  to  be  our  teacher  !  But  that 
he  may  fill  that  office  towards  us,  we  must  give 


THE    HEAVENLY    VINE-DRESSER.  327 

heed  in  youth  to  tliat  fundamental  commandment, 
"  My  son,  give  me  tliy  heart." 

My  young  friends,  give  him  your  liearts.  Then 
shall  his  daily  Providence  nourish  and  strengthen 
you.  Every  event  shall  prove  a  blessing,  every 
trial  a  godsend,  every  cloud  shall  rain  down  riglit- 
cousness  upon  you.  All  things  shall  be  yours. 
Every  experience  of  life  shall  be  an  experience 
of  growing  peace  and  joy  as  followers  of  Christ. 
The  discipline  of  disappointment  and  sorrow  lies 
before  you,  —  will  open  upon  you  sooner  than 
you  imagine.  Will  you  encounter  its  woes,  and 
reject  its  revenue  of  spiritual  blessedness  ?  —  drink 
the  full  bitterness  of  the  cup  and  spurn  its  heal- 
ing and  strengthening  admixture  ?  —  bear  every 
burden,  bow  under  every  sorrow,  and  yet  refuse 
that  divine  ministry  whicli  can  make  the  burdens 
blessings,  and  the  sorrow  joy  ?  0  that  you  could 
see  how  surely  and  how  soon  you  must  pass 
through  scenes,  in  which  without  the  spirit  of 
piety  all  will  be  dark  and  desolate,  but  in  which 
you  can  feel  a  heavenly  presence  and  find  the 
darkness  light  around  you !  Come  young,  come 
now,  to  the  service,  and  fill  your  hearts  with  the 
love  of  God,  and  then  shall  everything  be  rich 
and  beautiful  in  its  season,  and  nothing  more  so 
than  those  sad  and  sorrowful  portions  of  your  lot 
in  life,  in  which  God  will  reveal  himself,  and  an- 
gels minister,  and  heaven  be  open  to  you. 


SERMON    XXY. 


THE  IMEMORY   OF   GRIEF  AND  WRONG. 

THESE    ARE     THEY    WHICH     CAME     OUT     OF     GREAT     TRIBULA- 
TION.—  Revelation  vii.   14. 

Whether  a  race  of  finite  and  imperfect  beings 
could  have  been  trained  for  any  worthy  end,  or 
have  reached  a  state  of  conscious  happiness,  with- 
out the  ministry  of  suffering,  we  are  not  compe- 
tent to  say.  It  may,  however,  be  plausibly  main- 
tained, that,  as  self-consciousness  must  precede 
our  knowledge  of  the  outward  world,  and  our 
cognizance  of  the  finite  our  conception  of  the  in- 
finite, so  must  we  have  had  some  experience  of 
suffering,  in  order  to  obtain  the  idea  of  happiness 
as  something  over  and  above  existence.  Wheth- 
er this  be  the  case  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  very 
many  of  our  happiest  experiences,  and  of  our 
best  frames  of  mind  and  traits  of  character,  are 
to  be  traced,  if  not  to  the  direct  agency,  at  least 
to  the  memory,  of  grief  and  wrong.  There  is  no 
exaggeration  in  Dickens's  sto?7  of  the  Haunted 


THE  MEMORY  OF  GUIEF  AND  WRONG.     329 

Man,  in  which  the  supcrnatiirar  agent,  wlio  re- 
lieved the  hero  of  liis  remembrance  of  evil  and 
sorrow,  is  represented  as  having  robbed  him,  not 
only  of  the  joy  of  life,  but  of  all  the  genial,  ten- 
der, sympathetic  elements  of  his  character.  The 
beneficent  influences  flowing  from  such  remem- 
brances will  be  my  subject  this  morning. 

I  might  remind  you,  in  the  first  place,  that 
the  lowest  degradation  into  which  a  human  be- 
ing can  sink  is  a  state  in  wliich  there  is  no  reten- 
tiveness,  nay,  hardly  a  transient  consciousness, 
of  painful  emotion.  Let  a  child,  born  in  sin,  be 
cast  in  very  infancy  upon  the  bleak  world,  with- 
out shelter,  education,  or  guidance,  exposed  to 
the  pelting  of  the  elements,  spurned  and  buffeted 
at  every  hand's  turn,  a  vagrant  in  the  lanes  and 
along  the  wharves  of  a  great  city,  —  that  child 
becomes  in  his  very  infancy  almost  invulnerable 
to  every  outward  influence,  and  incapable  of 
fueling  neglect  or  injury ;  but  in  this  process  lie 
grows  up  an  absolute  brute.  Even  in  the  satis- 
faction of  his  bodily  appetites  there  is  neither 
discrimination  nor  enjoyment ;  and  in  cold  and 
luinger  the  limbs  and  stomacli  scarcely  tell  their 
story  to  the  intellect.  He  is  incapable  of  attach- 
ment and  of  gratitude.  Gentleness  cannot  tame 
him,  nor  can  severity  awe  him.  As  the  frozen 
limb  must  be  made  sensitive  to  pain,  before  it 
is  capable  of  healthy  circulation  or  free  motion, 
the  first  step  towards  making  him  happy  will  be 

28* 


to  unseal  the  fountain  of  sorrow.  He  must  weep 
before  lie  can  enjoy.  His  awakening  into  moral 
life  will  be  attended  at  least  with  pensiveness, 
probably  with  intense  suffering ;  and  without  this 
he  will  live  and  die  like  a  brute. 

Take  next  the  case  of  one  wlio  has  fallen  into 
loathsome  degradation  from  a  favored  and  happy 
early  lot.  That  fall  was  not  without  frequent 
and  severe  suffering,  probably  not  without  full 
as  much  wrong  received  as  committed.  But 
the  degraded  being  has  lost  his  sensibility.  The 
fountain  of  tears  is  dried  up.  He  now  bears 
pliysical  privation  or  distress  with  a  dogged  res- 
oluteness,— with  a  depraved  stoicism.  You  can- 
not arouse  such  a  being  to  the  consciousness  of 
present  misery.  I^ags,  hunger,  blows,  the  alms- 
house, the  prison-cell,  have  become  congenial ; 
and  the  traces  of  every  new  hardship  or  inflic- 
tion are  like  those  of  tlie  arrow  in  the  air.  Nor 
yet  can  you  excite  penitence  or  remorse  by  any 
moral  representation,  however  pungent  or  attrac- 
tive, of  the  evil  and  misery  of  guilt  or  the  love- 
liness of  virtue.  You  must  go  back  to  the  days 
of  innocence,  —  to  the  earliest  steps  in  tlie  evil 
path.  You  must  awaken  the  remembrance  of 
obsolete  wrong  and  sorrow.  You  must  recall 
the  prodigal's  first  wretched  pilgrimage  from  the 
father's  liouse.  You  must  arouse  in  the  pres- 
ent self  sympathy  with  the  past,  the  long  past 
self.     In  this  way  alone  can  you  call  forth  the 


THE    MEMORY    OF    GRIEF   AND    WRONG.  331 

resolution,  ^'  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father." 
Thus  true  to  nature  is  our  Saviour's  parable, 
when  he  makes  the  lost  son  come  to  himself, 
remember  his  father's  house,  and  derive  from 
this  remembrance  the  germ  of  penitence,  the 
purpose  of  return.  Thus  true  to  all  experience 
was  the  prolonged  weeping  of  the  outcast  sin- 
ner at  the  feet  of  Jesus  ;  and,  had  she  not  sor- 
rowed much,  she  could  not  have  loved  much, 
or  have  been  much   forgiven. 

Let  us  pass  now  to  experiences  that  lie  more 
within  our  own  sphere  of  consciousness,  and, 
first,  to  domestic  happiness.  We  can  hardly  be 
aware  how  much  of  the  joy,  how  much  of  the 
purity  and  tenderness,  of  our  home  relations 
springs  from  the  very  events  which  we  most 
dread,  or  from  the  shadow  or  apprehension  of 
them.  Two  young  hearts  are  plighted  to  each 
other  in  the  most  fervent  love,  and  enter  on 
their  united  life  under  the  most  prosperous  au- 
spices and  with  the  highest  hopes.  Let  every- 
thing answer  to  their  anticipations,  —  let  their 
life  flow  on  without  grief  or  fear,  —  avert  from 
them  the  cares  from  which  they  shrink,  the  re- 
sponsibilities wliich  they  deprecate,  —  and  their 
love  is  either  suddenly  exhaled,  or  gradually 
frittered  away.  They  grow  mutually  intoler- 
ant of  their  necessary  differences  of  taste,  opin- 
ion, and  feeling.  The  glaring  sunlight  in  which 
they  live  shows  them  in  exaggerated  forms  each 


332    THE  MEMORY  OF  ORIEF  AND  WRONG. 

other's  defects  and  foibles.  The  hot  glow  of 
iiiiintermitted  prosperity  withers  those  filaments 
of  tender,  delicate  respect,  confidence,  forbear- 
ance, and  attachment  which  are  essential  to 
their  permanent  union.  If  they  remain  with- 
out mutual  discord  or  dislike,  it  is  through  the 
negative  power  of  passive  good-nature,  while  the 
heart-ties  are  all  the  while  growing  weaker,  so 
that  their  dissolution  would  be  more  and  more 
slightly  and  transiently  felt. 

But,  with  their  first  weighty  cares  or  solici- 
tudes, they  are  drawn  into  an  intimacy  of  feeling 
closer  than  they  had  ever  imagined  before.  The 
anxiety,  the  suffering,  the  remembrance  of  which 
thrills  through  their  hearts  over  the  cradle  of 
their  first-born,  while  it  consecrates  the  child  to 
their  love,  renews  with  double  emphasis  every 
obligation  of  the  marriage  covenant.  The  peril, 
the  transient  shadow  of  death,  through  which 
the  new-born  has  passed  into  life,  is  the  most 
blessed  experience  to  the  parents,  who  thence- 
forth can  cherish  a  mutual  forbearance,  sympa- 
thy, and  helpfulness,  to  create  which  the  ardor 
of  youthful  passion  would  have  been  wholly  in- 
adequate. Similar  is  the  ministry  of  every  pain- 
ful domestic  epoch.  Every  watching  by  the  sick- 
bed, every  weary  night  and  anxious  day,  every 
anxiety  and  grief  borne  together,  evokes  from 
the  depths  of  sympathy  a  still  lower  deep,  and 
binds  the  kindred  hearts  in  still  closer  bonds. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    GRIEF    AND    WRONG.  303 

After  every  such  passage  in  life,  each  member 
of  the  household  circle  seems  more  essential  to 
the  rest  than  ever  before ;  and,  in  this  strength- 
ening of  mutual  dependence  and  attachment, 
their  joy  in  each  other,  though  more  sober  in 
its  manifestations,  is  constantly  becoming  more 
deep,  full,  and  satisfying. 

Then,  when  bereavement  comes,  it  comes  with 
its  mission  of  love.  One  voice  hushed,  every 
other  voice  grows  more  tender.  One  kind  min- 
istry suspended,  each  of  the  surviving  circle  be- 
comes more  assiduous,  considerate,  and  faithful. 
The  love  withdrawn  from  earth  seems  not  so 
much  lost,  as  diffused  through  the  hearts  of 
those  who  yet  remain ;  and  though  outward 
sources  of  joy  can  never  flow  so  bright  and 
high  as  before,  their  joy  in  one  another,  their 
mutual  trust  and  sympathy,  are  rendered  more 
pure,  entire,  and  fervent.  The  cup  of  bereave- 
ment is  indeed  bitter,  and  the  whole  heart  re- 
coils when  it  is  offered,  and  even  more  from 
its  repetition  than  when  it  is  first  mingled  for 
us  ;  nor  would  we  ever  lose  the  fresh  and  re- 
gretful remembrance  of  those  no  longer  with 
us.  Yet  we  have  felt  that  these  griefs  have 
unsealed  hidden  fountains  of  affection  in  our 
own  hearts,  and  in  those  of  our  near  kindred, 
and  enabled  us  at  once  to  impart  and  to  re- 
ceive more  richly  all  the  kindly  commerce  of 
domestic  intimacy.      Then,  too,  with  the  very. 


834     THE  MEMORY  OF  GRIEF  AND  WRONG. 

seasons  of  our  severest  appreliensioii  or  sorrow 
there  are  associated  so  many  thoughts  of  peace, 
so  many  expressions  of  kindness,  so  many  offices 
of  friendship  and  affection,  that  they  make  green 
spots  for  memory  to  look  back  upon,  and  are 
among  the  last  of  our  life-experiences  of  which 
we  would  willingly  have  the  remembrance  blot- 
ted out. 

A  similar  view  presents  itself  with  regard  to 
our  religious  characters.  Could  those  of  us,  who 
are  endeavoring  to  live  in  tlie  fear  of  God  and 
the  love  of  Christ,  trace  back  the  growth  of  the 
religious  life  in  our  hearts,  we  should  find  that, 
while  the  germ  was  there  before  care  or  sorrow 
had  taken  strong  hold  upon  us,  yet  in  many  in- 
stances its  first  decided  development  and  rapid 
increase  were  in  connection  with  pain,  perplex- 
ity, or  grief.  It  was  the  clouding  over  of  earthly 
prospects,  that  opened  to  lis  a  clear  and  realiz- 
ing view  of  heaven.  It  was  the  failure  of  fond 
hopes,  that  sealed  our  determination  to  lay  up 
treasures  where  hope  cannot  fail.  It  was  tlie 
falling  away  of  objects  of  our  most  confident 
dependence,  that  cast  us  upon  the  Most  Higli 
as  our  only  enduring  refuge  and  support.  It 
was  keen  disappointment  in  things  outward, 
that  turned  our  earnest  and  anxious  thought 
to  those  inward  resources,  to  that  spiritual  life, 
which  wells  up  from  an  inexhaustible  fountain 
in  the  heart  at  one  with  God  and  Christ.     Were 


THE  me:mory  of  grief  and  wrong.       335 

wc  to  lose  the  more  pensive  or  sorrowful  chap-' 
tors  of  the  past,  we  must  tear  up  by  the  roots 
and  cast  away  with  them  the  very  portions  of 
our  natures  and  characters  that  fdl  the  present 
with  peace  and  the  future  witli  hope. 

I  liave  spoken  of  the  sheltered  scenes  of  home,' 
and  of  the  interior  life  of  the  soul.  In  the  out- 
ward relations  of  society,  we  arc  equally  indebt- 
ed to  the  ministry  of  affliction.  How  many  are 
tlie  pure  and  virtuous  friendships,  now  sources 
of  unalloyed  gladness  and  improvement,  which 
had  their  commencement  in  a  common  grief,  or 
in  a  burden  of  solicitude  or  sorrow,  which  one, 
whom  previously  we  had  not  known  how  to 
prize,  hastened  to  bear  with  us,  or  we  with 
him !  Of  the  many  bonds  of  cordial  esteem 
and  affection,  which  cross  and  recross  each 
other  around  the  same  communion-altar  or  in 
the  same  worshipping  assembly,  between  a  pas- 
tor and  his  flock,  or  between  fellow-worship- 
pers, how  many  there  arc,  (and  those  the  most 
sacred  and  tender,)  that  had  their  origin  in 
trial  or  in  grief!  How  many  of  the  most  de- 
voted offices  of  Christian  kindness,  which  give 
a  glow  and  charm  to  prosperity,  first  began  to 
l)e  extended  in  adversity  !  Take  away,  my 
friends,  from  our  religious  union  all  that  has 
borne  a  sad  aspect,  —  our  mutual  counsel  and 
consolation  in  doubt  or  sorrow,  our  united 
prayers  by  the  bedside,  our  last  joint  offices  of 


piety  over  tho  dead,  our  intercessions  for  ono 
another  in  the  sanctuary,  —  there  would  be  lit- 
tle left  to  unite  us,  little  reason  wliy  we  should 
worship  and  commune  together,  and  we  should 
fall  asunder  as  isolated  human  units,  each  to 
feel  out  his  own  solitary  way  to  the  grave  and 
to  heaven. 

In  old  age  we  can  also  trace  the  genial  influ- 
ence of  sorrow.  As  the  cloud,  that  has  flashed 
its  angry  lightnings  and  poured  its  desolating 
showers,  retreats  fringed  with  gold  and  crim- 
son, and  spanned  with  the  glorious  bow  of  God's 
unchanging  promise,  so  do  the  griefs  that  have 
been  the  heaviest  and  the  most  cheerless,  when 
they  lie  in  the  remote  horizon  of  the  past,  glow 
with  celestial  radiance  and  divine  beauty.  As 
tlie  aged  Christian  looks  back  on  the  conflicts 
and  sorrows  of  earlier  years,  every  cloud  has 
its  rainbow,  every  retreating  storm  dies  away 
in  whispers  of  joeace.  Not  in  its  bitterness  and 
agony  does  the  past  come  up,  but  with  its 
thoughts  of  consolation  and  promise,  its  breath- 
ings of  immortality,  its  hopes  triumphant  over 
deatli  and  the  grave.  There  lie  in  the  back- 
ground conflicts  stern  and  arduous,  —  they  can 
never  be  renewed  ;  but  the  Christian's  victory 
in  them  was  once  and  for  ever.  There  recur 
to  the  memory  vanished  joys  that  cannot  be  re- 
stored :  but  the  peace  of  God  that  came  in  and 
filled  the  heart  when   they  fled   remains   there 


THE    MEMORY    OF    GRIEF   AND    WRONG.  337 

still.  Friends,  from  whom  it  seemed  more  than 
death  to  part,  yet  live  in  dear  remembrance  ; 
but  from  their  vacant  places  the  soul  turns  to  the 
goodly  company  of  the  beloved  and  the  holy,  who 
are  making  ready  the  heavenly  welcome.  Take 
away  the  remembrance  of  what  life  has  had  of 
sadness,  and  you  would  startle  the  aged  disciple 
from  the  brink  of  heaven,  drown  the  hope  of  im- 
mortality, and  bring  back  the  thronging  interests 
and  joys  of  former  years  to  run  riot  in  the  worn- 
out  heart.  It  is  the  softened,  painless  memory 
of  trial  and  of  grief,  that  feeds  the  spirit  of  pa- 
tient, cheerful  resignation,  reconciles  the  soul  to 
dissolution  as  it  draws  near,  and  sustains  the  will- 
ingness to  depart,  the  desire  to  be  with  Christ. 

I  have  spoken  chiefly  of  the  sorrows  that  come 
to  us  by  the  direct  appointment  of  Providence. 
Are  there  any  of  us  who  can  look  back  on  wrong 
and  injury  done  to  us  by  our  fellow-men  ?  Even 
this,  if  we  were  wise,  we  would  not  wish  to  for- 
get. Far  more  noble  is  it  to  remember  in  full, 
and  yet  forgive,  —  to  retain  our  sensitiveness  un- 
impaired, and  yet  to  take  the  offending  brother  to 
our  hearts  as  if  he  had  done  us  no  wrong.  Thus 
only  can  we  make  the  wounds  of  carelessness,  un- 
kindness,  envy,  or  malice,  permitted,  though  not 
wrought  by  Providence,  coincide  in  their  blessed 
ministry  with  the  griefs  that  flow  from  the  hand 
of  God.  Thus  do  we  turn  our  enemy  into  a  ben- 
efactor, by  making  him  the  unconscious  instru- 

29 


338  THE   MEMORY    OF    GRIEF    AND    WRONG. 

mcnt  of  calling  out  in  our  hearts  traits  more  ele- 
vated, Chi'iStlike,  Godlike,  than  without  his  agen- 
cy we  could  have  put  into  exercise.  The  diadem 
of  univerral  sovereignty  on  our  Saviour's  head 
would  have  heen  a  silly  bawble.  Those  who 
platted  the  crown  of  thorns  for  his  brow  pre- 
pared for  him  a  diadem,  which,  labelled  with 
the  Father,  forgive  them,  can  never  fade  from 
the  faith  and  love  of  humanity. 

Finally,  the  connection  in  which  our  text 
stands  leads  us  to  extend  the  benign  ministry  of 
sorrow  to  the  world  where  sorrow  is  unknown. 
You  must  have  been  struck,  I  think,  with  the 
constant  reference  to  earthly  trial  and  grief  in 
St.  John's  representations  of  heaven.  Their  re- 
demption from  it  is  the  burden  of  the  ascriptions 
of  the  ransomed  host  to  their  glorified  Saviour. 
Freedom  from  all  the  ills,  hardships,  and  suffer- 
ings of  earth  furnishes  the  most  glowing  portions 
of  the  picture  of  the  New  Jerusalem.  The  fre- 
quent trials  of  the  present  state,  its  disappoint- 
ed hopes,  defeated  plans,  withered  joys,  may, 
far  along  in  the  heavenly  life,  supply  the  term 
of  comparison,  reveal  the  measure  of  our  hap- 
piness, quicken  the  flow  of  adoring  gratitude, 
and  sustain  a  full  consciousness  of  the  felicity 
in  which  we  are  embosomed.  The  ever-new  ar- 
dor of  enjoyment,  the  unceasing  floAV  of  thank- 
fulness, the  idea  of  deliverance,  of  redemption, 
inseparable  from  the  song  of  praise  to  God  and 


THE   MEMORY    OF    GRIEF   AND    WRONG.  339 

the  Lamb,  will  no  doubt  distinguish  ransomed 
men  from  tliose  of  the  heavenly  host  who  have 
never  suffered,  so  that  it  shall  be  said  of  them, 
not  in  pity,  but  in  sympathy  with  their  intense 
gladness,  "  These  are  they  which  came  out  of 
great  tribulation." 


SERMON   XXYI 


COMMUNION  OF  THE  DEAD  WITH  THE  LIVING. 

I  AM  THY  FELLOW-SERVANT,  AND  OF  THY  BRETHREN  THE 

PROPHETS.  —  Revelation  xxii.  9. 

So  said  the  angel  that  showed  St.  John  the 
tree  of  life,  and  talked  with  him  of  the  joys  of 
heaven.  He  was  an  earth-born  angel,  trained 
by  arduous  duty  and  stern  conflict  for  a  holy 
and  exalted  ministry  in  God's  nearer  presence. 
It  was  in  a  vision  that  the  Apostle  beheld  him ; 
and  a  vision  denotes,  with  emphasis,  seeing' ;  that 
is,  a  clearer,  deeper,  truer  insight  than  is  enjoyed 
in  the  usual  condition  of  the  faculties.  It  was 
not  fables  or  allegories,  but  realities  and  truths 
appertaining  to  the  spiritual  world,  that  were  un- 
folded to  the  seers  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament 
in  vision.  The  inward  eye  was  opened.  They 
beheld  things  of  which  the  external  sense  cannot 
take  cognizance,  and  which  they  could  describe 
only  by  images  and  symbols  that  feebly  represent- 


COMMUNION  OF  THE  DEAD  WITH  THE  LIVING.    341 

ed  the  impressions  made  upon  their  own  minds. 
I  have  chosen  this  text  in  order  to  speak  to  you 
of  the  nearness  of  heaven  to  earth,  and  of  our 
connection  and  communion  with  the  great  spirit- 
ual family.  I  cannot  think  of  heaven  as  a  sepa- 
rate, far-off  mansion  or  city  of  the  redeemed,  hut 
as  in  close  connection  with  the  world  in  which 
we  live.  I  believe  that  the  members  of  the  heav- 
enly society,  even  now,  sympathize  with  us,  re- 
joice in  our  virtue,  and  minister  to  our  spiritual 
growth.  Let  us  look  at  some  of  the  grounds  and 
uses  of  this  belief. 

There  are  many  sayings  of  Jesus,  and  incidents 
in  his  life,  which  imply  the  intimate  communion 
of  the  dead  with  the  living.  One  of  the  most 
striking  features  of  his  life  is  the  frequency  and 
nearness  of  his  converse  with  the  spiritual  world. 
He  never  speaks  of  angels  and  just  men  made 
perfect,  as  if  there  were  a  weary  distance  to  be 
crossed  from  them  to  us,  or  from  us  to  them. 
They  are  often  with  him,  —  at  his  birth,  in  his 
temptation,  and  in  his  agony,  they  come  uncalled, 
—  they  watch  by  his  sepulchre,  and  wait  on  his 
ascension.  The  spirits  of  the  long-dead  talk  with 
him  on  the  mountain.  His  voice  to  the  widow's 
son,  his  powerful  word  at  the  tomb  of  Lazarus, 
seem  addressed  to  souls  not  afar  off,  but  within 
call,  —  near  the  scenes  from  which  they  had 
gone,  and  among  the  friends  who  thought  them 
lost  for  ever.     He  promises,  also,  his  own  spirit- 


342  COMMUNION    OF    THE    DEAD 

ual  presence  with  his  followers,  when  he  shall  be 
no  longer  visible  to  the  outward  eye. 

Among  other  touching  allusions  to  the  connec- 
tion between  the  dead  and  the  living,  we  cannot 
but  assign  a  prominent  place  to  that  saying  of 
our  Saviour,  —  "  Joy  shall  be  in  heaven  over  one 
sinner  that  repenteth."  In  this  joy  we  cannot 
imagine  the  higher  orders  of  the  spiritual  family 
as  partaking,  without  its  being  shared  by  the 
penitent's  kindred  and  friends  in  heaven.  How 
intimate  is  the  relation  between  the  two  worlds 
implied  in  the  thought  which  these  words  sug- 
gest !  The  faint,  lowly  sigh  of  the  contrite  heart 
sweeps  in  glad  harmony  over  the  golden  lyres,  and 
wakes  among  the  blessed  a  new  song  of  thanks- 
giving. The  first  pulsations  of  spiritual  life  in  the 
outcast  sinner  beat  in  the  souls  of  the  sinless,  and 
every  throb  of  godly  sorrow  on  earth  pours  new 
joy  through  the  ranks  of  the  redeemed. 

It  is  said  that  this  near  connection  of  heaven 
with  earth  must  interfere  with  the  perfect  happi- 
ness of  those  in  heaven,  from  their  view  of  the 
painful  discipline  appointed  to  many  of  their  near- 
est and  best  friends  ?  I  reply,  that,  whether  they 
behold  the  trials  of  their  friends  or  not,  they  must 
know,  from  their  own  remembered  experience, 
that  sorrow  awaits  all  who  enter  into  life.  But 
they  no  longer  dread  for  others  the  angel-minis- 
tries of  adversity,  which  they  now  fully  recognize 
for  themselves.       They  behold  universal  Provi- 


WITH    THE    LIVING.  343 

dence  every  where  from  seeming  evil  educing  the 
highest  good,  and  thus  can  acquiesce  with  solemn 
joy  in  whatever  afflictions  are  appointed  for  those 
whom  they  hope  one  day  to  welcome  as  their  com- 
panions in  glory,  even  as  the  Father  himself,  wlio 
loves  us  all  better  than  we  can  love  each  other, 
dwells  in  serene  and  eternal  happiness,  while  he 
mingles  the  cup  of  sorrow  and  agony  for  his 
children. 

Is  it  asked,  how  heaven  can  be  thus  near,  and 
yet  unseen  ?  I  reply,  that  the  invisible  presence 
of  the  children  of  God  is  no  more  mysterious  than 
his  own.  They  may  be  all  around  us,  without 
our  discerning  them,  because  our  spiritual  vision 
is  not  strong  and  clear  enough  to  behold  them, — 
even  as  the  minute  creation,  that  fills  air,  earth, 
and  sea,  remained  for  ages  unknown,  for  lack  of 
a  proper  medium  through  which  to  view  it.  Our 
Saviour  saw  the  dead  and  talked  with  them  ;  for 
in  him  the  spiritual  vision  was  clear  and  full. 
And  when  his  religion  shall  become  supreme 
and  all-pervading,  and  generations  shall  come 
forward,  as  they  will  in  the  latter  days,  bathed 
from  infancy  in  the  light  and  love  of  his  Gospel, 
the  free  communion  with  heaven  may  be  opened, 
the  tabernacle  of  God  be  with  men,  and  the  union 
of  the  two  worlds  form  as  much  a  part  of  the  dis- 
tinct consciousness  of  every  disciple  as  it  did  of 
the  Saviour  himself. 

I  prize  the  belief  of  the  communion  of  the 


344  COMMUNION    OF   THE    DEAD 

dead  with  the  living,  on  account  of  the  encour- 
agement to  religious  effort  which  their  sympathy 
gives  us.  We  all  seek  sympathy,  and  to  secure 
it  we  often  become  followers  of  each  other  more 
than  of  Jesus.  We  walk  slower  than  we  need, 
that  we  may  not  part  company  with  our  halting 
fellow-pilgrims.  W^e  hang  about  our  persons  tlie 
same  weights,  and  cherish  the  same  easily  beset- 
ting sins,  as  those  who  run  the  race  at  our  side. 
And  when,  in  any  way,  our  consciences  prompt 
us  to  walk  otherwise  or  move  on  faster  than  our 
fellow-Christians,  we  cannot  help  looking  back 
with  a  painful  sense  of  solitude  and  desertion. 
But  our  friends  in  heaven  are  the  more  intimately 
associated  with  us,  the  farther  we  are  in  advance 
of  the  inert  and  sluggish.  When  we  seem  to  be 
alone,  we  can  say  as  did  the  prophet,  when  he 
saw  himself  environed  and  guarded  by  the  host 
of  heaven, — ''They  that  be  with  us  are  more 
than  they  that  be  with  them."  Those  of  our 
friends  who  have  entered  the  heavenly  rest  have 
endured  what  we  must  encounter,  and  know  how 
severe  are  the  conflicts  through  which  we  must 
struggle  into  the  higher  life.  They  themselves 
felt  the  loneliness  and  desolation  which  sometimes 
press  so  heavily  upon  our  spirits.  Their  sensibili- 
ties are  now  touched  to  the  finest  issues.  They 
are  familiar  with  every  mode  of  inward  experi- 
ence, and  can  enter  into  our  liearts,  where  the 
closest  sympathy  of  the  living  fails  us. 


WITH    THE    LIVING.  345 

Again,  wc  can  hardly  entertain  the  idea  of  the 
communion  of  our  departed  friends  with  us,  with- 
out its  promj^ting  the  desire  for  their  continued 
approbation.  Can  we  bear  their  inspection,  and 
willingly  remain  unworthy  of  their  esteem  ?  Can 
Ave  cherish  the  thought  that  they  are  with  us,  and 
yet  harbor  principles  and  habits  from  which  they 
would  turn  with  disapproval  and  loathing  ?  Shall 
they  behold  us  clinging  to  the  weights  which  we 
should  lay  aside,  and  hugging  the  sins  which  we 
should  crucify  ?  Our  friends  who  have  gone 
from  us,  perhaps,  in  the  weakness  of  partial  affec- 
tion, could  see  no  fault  in  us.  Our  parents  were, 
it  may  be,  blind  to  our  failings.  Our  children 
looked  up  to  us  with  unmingled  reverence,  as  if 
we  had  been  the  incarnation  of  every  virtue. 
Our  gentle  and  loving  fellow-Christians,  while 
they  were  with  us,  threw  over  our  weaknesses  the 
beautiful  mantle  of  their  charity,  and  read  our 
characters  through  the  hazy  medium  of  their  own 
kindness.  But  the  scales  have  now  dropped  from 
their  eyes.  If  they  see  and  know  us,  it  is  with  a 
just  appreciation  of  what  we  are.  And  have  we 
fallen  in  their  esteem?  Do  they  find  us  less 
worthy  of  their  love  than  they  used  to  think  us  ? 
Do  they  look  upon  us  as  less  their  companions 
and  fellow-disciples  than  when  they  were  here  ? 
As  we,  parents  and  children,  neighbors  and 
friends,  hope  to  find  the  long  lost,  but  unforgot- 
ten,  still  true  and  loving,  still  and  for  ever  ours, 


346  COMMUNION    OF    THE    DEAD 

0,  let  IIS  cut  off  these  sources  of  alienation  and 
disappointment  on  their  part,  —  let  us  not  break 
fellowship  with  them,  by  so  living  in  negligence 
and  sin,  that  they  must  often  avert  their  eyes 
from  our  unprofitable  lives  to  the  eternal  throne 
in  pitying  intercession  for  us. 

The  idea  of  this  discourse  appeals  vrith  pecu- 
liar power  to  those  who  have  never  entered  upon 
the  spiritual  life.  Is  there  here  a  son  who  has  a 
mother  in  heaven  ?  Had  God  spared  your  moth- 
er, my  young  friend,  would  you  not  have  held 
her  happiness  sacred,  anticipated  her  desires,  and 
shielded  her  from  disappointment  and  sorrow  ? 
You  can  even  now  make  her  liappier.  Full  as 
her  joy  is,  it  is  not  perfect  while  you  remain  out 
of  the  circle  of  her  communion.  Your  mother's 
soul  still  yearns  for  your  salvation.  Her  inter- 
cessions, which  first  rose  over  your  cradle,  now 
ascend  for  you  near  the  throne  Enter  on  the 
life  of  heaven,  and  you  hang  new  jewels  on  her 
eternal  crown  of  rejoicing.  Is  there  a  parent, 
still  living  without  prayer  and  without  the  Chris- 
tian's hope,  who  has  committed  a  child  to  the 
grave  in  spotless  infancy  ?  How  gladly,  my 
friend,  would  you  have  guarded  your  child  from 
peril  and  from  grief,  and  borne  him  in  the  arms 
of  an  all-enduring  love  along  the  rugged  path  of 
life  !  A  work  of  love  yet  remains  for  you  in  that 
child's  behalf.  He  prays  tliat  he  may  not  be  left 
an  orphan  spirit,  though  it  be  in  heaven ;  and  for 


WITH    THE    LIVING.  317 

your  first  steps  in  the  footmarks  of  the  Lord 
Jesus,  the  voice,  lost  to  earth  before  it  could  say 
My  Father  or  My  Mother,  will  be  lifted  in  glad 
thanksgiving  for  you.  Brothers  and  sisters,  from 
whose  circle  Heaven  has  chosen  the  pure  and 
lovely,  were  you  here  united  by  cordial  sympathy 
and  deep  affection?  Their  prayer  is,  that  the 
divided  household  may  again  be  made  one.  Are 
you  the  bond-slaves  of  gain,  or  pleasure,  or  self- 
indulgence  ?  The  spirits  of  the  departed  mark 
your  downward  steps,  and  turn  away  from  the 
scenes  of  your  levity  or  your  guilt  in  earnest  dep- 
recation of  the  fatal  issue  to  which  they  see  you 
hastening.  By  a  renewed  heart  and  life,  you  can 
make  yet  happier  those  whom  God  has  made  hap- 
py, and  satisfy  the  only  longing  of  their  souls 
which  eternal  love  has  left  unfilled. 

Finally,  what  a  momentous  interest  is  given  to 
our  whole  earthly  life  by  the  thought  that  it  is 
passed  in  the  presence  and  communion  of  the 
great  spiritual  family?  To  my  mind  there  is 
hardly  a  text  of  Scripture,  or  form  of  speech, 
that  rolls  on  with  such  a  depth  and  fulness  of 
meaning  as  those  words,  —  "  Seeing  that  we  are 
compassed  about  with  so  great  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses." Vast  and  bewildering  is  the  philosoph- 
ical speculation  which  tells  us  that  we  cannot  lift 
a  finger  without  moving  the  distant  spheres.  But 
far  more  grand  and  unspeakably  solemn  is  the 
thought  that  our  daily  lives,  our  conduct  in  lowly 


348    COMMUNION  OF  THE  DEAD  WITH  THE  LIVING. 

and  sheltered  scenes,  our  siDcech  and  walk  in  the 
retirement  of  our  homes,  are  felt  through  the 
universe  of  ever-living  souls,  —  that  the  laws  of 
attraction  and  repulsion  that  reach  through  all 
orders  of  heing  extend  to  our  least  words  and 
deeds,  —  that  in  every  worthy,  generous,  holy 
impulse  all  heaven  bears  part,  —  that  from  the 
trail  of  our  meanness  and  selfishness,  our  way- 
wardness and  levity,  all  heaven  recoils.  Let  the 
august  witnesses,  the  adoring  multitude,  in  whose 
presence  we  dwell  and  worship,  arouse  us  to 
growing  diligence  in  duty,  and  awaken  in  us  in- 
creasing fervor  of  spirit,  that  we  may  run  with 
patience  the  race  that  is  set  before  us,  and, 
found  faithful  unto  death,  may  receive  the  crown 
of  life. 


SERMON  XXYII 


THE  LORD'S   SUPPER. 

AS    OFTEN  AS   YE    EAT   THIS    BREAD,  AND    DRIXK  THIS  CUP,  TB 
DO    SHOW    THE    LORd'S    DEATH    TILL   HE    COME.  —  1   Corintlli- 

ans  xi.  26. 

It  is  an  hour  of  love.  The  toils  of  death  are 
spread  for  the  great  Teacher.  The  traitor  has 
commenced  his  plotting.  The  great  council  of 
the  nation  have  decreed  that  Jesus  shall  die.  He 
knows  that  his  hour  has  come,  —  that  the  shep- 
herd is  to  be  smitten,  and  the  sheep  scattered. 
Regardless  of  his  own  sufferings,  but  full  of  ten- 
der solicitude  for  his  disciples,  he  gathers  the 
faithful  few  around  the  paschal  table,  and  there 
pours  forth  over  them  his  love,  his  counsels,  and 
his  prayers,  in  words  of  the  most  thrilling  pathos, 
which  must  have  made  even  the  traitor's  heart 
die  within  him,  and  which  alone  will  suffice  to 
account  for  the  agony  of  remorse  that  seized  him, 
when  he  found  his  crime  committed  past  recall. 
Not  for  them  alone  does  Jesus  pray  ;  but  for 
those  who  shall  believe  on  him  through   their 

30 


350  THE  lord's  supper. 

word.  He  looks  far  down  the  vista  of  time,  and 
far-off  generations  rise  before  him.  He  sees  the 
growing  ranks  of  the  redeemed  from  every  kin- 
dred and  people.  For  all  these  is  he  to  bear  the 
cross  and  endure  the  shame.  For  these  is  the 
crown  of  thorns  to  lacerate  his  brow,  and  the 
knotted  scourge  to  tear  his  flesh.  Their  sins  he 
bears,  their  griefs  he  carries  on  his  interceding 
breast.  Through  him  i&  the  voice  of  pardon  to 
reach  them,  and  the  peace  of  God  to  be  shed 
abroad  in  their  souls.  How  stupendous  an  inter- 
est hangs  around  this  hour  !  He  has  uttered  the 
testament  of  love,  and  is  going  to  seal  it  with  his 
blood.  It  is  "  a  night  much  to  be  remembered 
unto  all  generations."  "  And  it  will  be  remem- 
bered," we  may  suppose  our  Saviour  inwardly  to 
have  said.  "  My  disciples  in  every  age  will  look 
back  to  this  hour,  to  learn  the  depth  of  my  hu- 
miliation and  the  fervor  of  my  love.  They  will 
revert  to  these  words  of  mine,  when  they  are 
smitten  of  God  and  afflicted.  My  voice  will 
vibrate  to  the  end  of  time,  saying  to  the  tried 
and  stricken  everywhere.  Let  not  3"our  hearts  be 
troubled, — believe  in  me, — in  my  father's  house 
are  many  mansions.  And  now  am  I  to  be  offered 
up  a  sacrifice  to  my  own  quenchless  love.  Let 
those  for  whom  I  die  love  me  as  I  have  loved 
them.  Let  them  know  how  sore  an  anguish 
weighs  me  down  in  view  of  their  guilt  and  woe, 
and  how  deep  their  names  are  engraven  on  the 


THE  lord's  supper.  351 

palms  of  my  hands  and  on  my  heart ;  and  they 
will,  they  must,  love  me." 

Full  of  these  emotions,  with  the  simplicity  of 
true  and  deep  feeling,  he  seeks  no  fiir-fotched 
memorial  of  the  interview,  —  he  institutes  no 
pompous  ceremony ;  bvit  takes  the  bread  and  the 
wine  before  him,  breaks  and  pours  them,  gives 
them  to  his  disciples,  and  says,  —  ''Thus  do  ye 
in  remembrance  of  me.  Thus  perpetuate  this 
hour  of  love,  renew  its  memory,  ponder  on  its 
hallowed  communings.  When  I  have  ascended 
on  high,  and  you  are  treading  after  me  the  deep 
vale  of  humiliation,  or  the  flinty  path  of  the 
world's  scorn  and  hatred,  thus  recall  my  love  and 
kindle  yours.  And  when  you  shall  preach  the 
word  of  the  kingdom  from  city  to  city,  and  gath- 
er here  and  there  a  little  flock  in  the  name  of  the 
despised  Nazarene,  tell  them  of  this  festival  of 
love,  let  them  in  memory  of  me  act  over  the 
scene,  and,  as  they  recall  my  prayers  and  coun- 
sels, and  muse  sadly  on  my  broken  body  and  flow- 
ing blood,  break  for  them  the  bread  and  pour  the 
cup,  as  I  do  now.  Thus,  when  the  world  has 
grown  old,  and  the  time  arrives  that  it  should 
pass  away,  —  when  I  shall  stand  at  the  latter  day 
upon  the  earth,  not,  as  now,  in  the  weeds  of  pov- 
erty and  sorrow,  but  in  the  glory  of  the  Father 
and  his  holy  angels,  —  shall  I  find  those  here  who 
still  keep  the  feast,  and  show  forth  their  Lord's 
death  till  he  come." 


352  THE  lord's  supper. 

Such  is  the  request,  —  such  the  memorial,  — ■ 
the  dying  wish  of  our  best  friend,  —  of  him  who 
suffered  for  us  then,  and  intercedes  for  us  and 
loves  us  still.  Let  us  now  consider  the  disposi- 
tions of  mind  and  heart  with  which  it  becomes 
us  to  approach  the  holy  table. 

1.  We  should  come  with  deep  humility.  For 
who  are  we  who  thus  meet  to  commemorate  the 
Saviour  ?  Most  or  all  of  us,  I  trust,  persons  who 
have  felt  something  of  the  power  of  his  death  and 
resurrection.  But  from  what  experiences  of  life 
have  we  come  hither  ?  From  homes  and  from 
paths  of  duty,  in  which  Jesus  has  been  constantly 
with  us  ?  Or  rather,  in  this  holy  presence,  must 
not  confession  precede  thanksgiving  with  the  most 
faithful  of  us  ?  One  comes  to  the  altar  from  an 
active  and  busy  life,  in  which  the  love  of  gain 
has  often  been  the  overmastering  principle,  and 
selfishness  has  usurped  the  place  of  brotherly 
love.  Here  is  another,  in  the  main  a  careful  and 
faithful  wife  and  mother,  who  yet,  when  troubled 
about  many  things,  has  sometimes  forgotten  tlie 
good  part,  and  let  worldly  cares  shut  out  God 
and  heaven  from  her  thoughts.  Here  is  one  in 
the  flusli  of  youth,  who  at  times  has  loitered  over 
long,  or  transgressed  the  bounds  of  Christian  so- 
berness, in  the  pursuit  of  mere  gratification,  has 
spurned  the  yoke  of  duty  wlien  its  weight  was 
felt,  and  cast  away  the  cross  wlien  it  began  to  be 
a  burden.     Another  has  left  a  home,  where  he 


THE  lord's  supper.  353 

finds  it  hard  to  preserve  the  meek  and  serene  as- 
pect in  "wliich  the  eyes  of  the  world  sustain  liini, 
where  lie  often  lets  forbearance  give  place  to 
wrath,  frctfulness  cloud  his  brow,  and  discontent 
rankle  in  his  heart.  Some  come  from  neglected 
family  altars  ;  some  from  want  and  misery  which 
tliey  have  known  without  relieving;  some  from 
calls  of  religious  charity  to  wliich  tliey  have  lent 
no  ear ;  some  without  an  effort,  since  we  last 
met,  to  hasten  the  fulfilment  of  the  prayer  which 
we  always  ofTcr,  —  "  Thy  kingdom  come."  How 
cold  and  languid  has  the  flow  of  our  devotion 
often  been  !  How  much  imperfection,  how  large 
an  admixture  of  inferior  and  unworthy  motives, 
mingles  with  our  holiest  seasons  and  our  best  ser- 
vices !  How  often  docs  the  shadow  of  self  come 
in  between  our  own  spirits,  and  both  our  brother 
whom  we  have  seen,  and  our  Father  whom  we 
have  not  seen !  How  various,  how  heavy,  how 
humiliating,  the  burden,  which  we,  communi- 
cants, bear  to  the  footstool  of  Divine  mercy,  when 
Ave  lift  our  united  supplication,  and  say,  —  "  Fa- 
ther, forgive  us,  take  away  our  sins,  and  make 
us  all  that  thou  wouldst  have  us !  " 

AVith  all  tliese  frailties,  we  come  hither  to  com- 
mune with  one  who  bore  part  in  our  temptations 
and  trials,  yet  knew  no  sin,  —  with  one  forwliom 
no  shadow  of  self  ever  lay  across  the  path  of 
duty,  or  between  him  and  the  throne  of  the  Most 
High.     We  come  to   measure   our   spirits  with 

30* 


354  THE  lord's  supper. 

his,  —  to  make  his  piety  and  love  the  standard 
for  ours,  —  to  try  tlic  question,  whether  we  are 
like  or  unlike  liim,  and,  if  like  him,  how  nearly 
resembling  him,  and  in  what  traits  still  lack- 
ing kindred  with  him.  This  self-comparison  we 
ought  to  make,  whenever  we  come  to  the  table 
of  the  Lord.  "We  should  admit  him  as  Judge 
into  the  recesses  of  our  hearts,  and  listen  with 
reverence  for  the  sentence  that  he  may  pass  upon 
us.  Did  we  bow  at  the  altar  in  conscious  lowli- 
ness,—  did  we,  while  owning  the  Saviour's  love, 
behold  in  truthful  hues  our  own  negligence  and 
sin,  —  did  godly  sorrow  for  what  we  have  not 
attained  blend  with  our  thanksgivings  over  the 
emblematic  bread  and  cup,  —  did  we,  making  a 
mirror  of  our  Lord's  countenance,  get  the  just  re- 
flection of  our  own  characters,  —  as  many  days  as 
these  communion  seasons  lie  apart,  so  many  Sab- 
bath-day's journeys  on  the  path  to  heaven  would 
they  mark,  and  each  would  be  a  starting-point 
for  a  yet  higher  aim  and  a  yet  more  vigorous  pur- 
suit of  treasures  incorruptible  and  eternal. 

2.  While  we  come  to  the  altar  with  deep  self- 
abasement,  let  us  come  also  with  sentiments  of 
gratitude  to  Jesus  personally,  for  what  he  has 
done  and  suffered  in  our  behalf.  This  is  not  a 
season  for  general  praise,  prayer,  and  meditation, 
or  for  the  contemplation  of  duty,  virtue,  and 
piety  in  the  abstract.  But  one  image  should  be 
before  our  minds, — that  of  a  lovhig,  suffering, 


THE  lord's  supper.  355 

interceding  Redeemer,  considered  as  standing  in 
the  closest  personal  relation  to  us,  as  the  medium 
of  God's  best  gifts,  as  the  friend  and  benefactor 
of  each  of  us  individually.  It  was  with  emphasis 
that  Jesus  said,  — "  Tliis  do  in  remembrance  of 
me."  In  otlier  religious  services,  wliilc  we  rec- 
ognize him  as  our  Mediator,  his  and  our  common 
Father  is  the  direct  object  of  regard.  Here, 
though  all  is  to  the  glory  of  God  the  Father,  our 
vows  and  thanksgivings  should  pause  and  linger 
on  their  way  to  the  eternal  throne,  to  retrace  the 
steps  and  rehearse  the  love  of  Jesus,  and  to  dwell 
with  a  prolonged  and  intense  regard  on  the  bene- 
fits of  which  he  has  been  made  the  sole  agent  and 
almoner. 

I  love  to  go  back  in  fancy  to  those  early  com- 
munion seasons  when  the  Apostles  themselves 
broke  bread  from  house  to  house,  and  when  often 
there  might  not  have  been  one  present  who  had 
not  talked  with  Jesus,  sat  at  meat  with  him,  and 
received  special  favors  directly  from  his  hand. 
At  such  a  scene  there  may  have  frequently  met 
Lazarus  of  Bethany  and  the  widow's  son  of  Nain, 
botli  "  recalled  upon  earth  to  testify  the  powers 
of  Heaven,"  made  mortal  again  to  bear  witness 
of  immortality.  There  may  the  maniac  of  Gad- 
ara  and  the  grateful  Samaritan  leper  have  told, 
each  in  his  turn,  what  great  things  the  Lord  had 
done  for  him.  There,  too,  met  the  self-made 
maniacs,  and   the   victims  of  spiritual   leprosy, 


356  THE  lord's  supper. 

whom  the  good  Shcplicrd  had  called  back  from 
their  mad  wanderings  and  healed  of  their  infirm- 
ities. And  then,  as  years  passed,  what  inward 
gladness  and  gratitude  must  have  beamed  from 
the  countenances  of  the  little  children  on  whom 
the  Lord's  hands  had  been  laid  in  blessing,  as 
they  came  forward  to  join  the  company  of  his 
professed  disciples  !  How  must  the  Master's  form 
and  face  have  been  all  outrayed  before  the  inward 
eye  of  each  and  all !  How  closely  felt  must  have 
been  his  spiritual  presence  with  them  !  And,  as 
each  told  his  own  story  of  the  Saviour's  compas- 
sion and  love  for  him  personally,  as  they  retraced 
one  and  another  of  the  scenes  when  they  had 
been  with  him  on  the  lake-side  or  in  the  desert, 
and  especially  when  one  of  the  chosen  twelve  un- 
folded the  dread  mystery  of  sorrow  and  agony  on 
the  night  on  which  he  was  betrayed,  I  can  almost 
see  the  furtive  eye  turned  to  the  closed  door, 
in  expectation  of  his  visible  appearance  among 
them,  saying,  —  "  Peace  be  unto  you." 

But  are  these  communion  seasons  never  to  be 
repeated,  and  these  dear  remembrances  never  to 
be  recalled  ?  Far  from  it.  They  were  what  ours 
ouglit  to  be,  —  seasons  of  personal  remembrance 
and  gratitude  for  the  great  things  that  the  Lord 
has  done  for  us  individually.  If  we  are  in  our 
true  i^lace  at  the  altar,  he  has  done  great  tilings 
for  us,  —  greater  things  than  those  outward  mira- 
cles for  which  we  imagine  such  heart-swelling 


THE  lord's  surrER.  357 

praises  to  have  gone  fortli.  He  has  done  more 
than  to  awaken  us  to  a  dying  life ;  he  lias 
breathed  into  our  souls  a  life  to  whicli  there  is 
no  death.  He  has  done  more  than  to  raise  us 
from  the  couch  of  chronic  illness  ;  some  of  us,  we 
trust,  he  lias  cleansed  from  old  iniquities,  and  re- 
stored our  palsied  powers  and  diseased  affections 
to  health  and  soundness.  He  has  done  more  for 
us  than  to  pronounce  a  blessing  on  our  infant 
heads  ;  for  many  of  us  his  blessing  rested  always 
on  our  very  cradles,  his  baptism  was  on  our  spir- 
its when  they  first  unfolded,  his  gentle  influences 
were  shed  all  around  our  infancy  and  childhood, 
and  have  never  for  a  moment  left  us,  except  when 
by  our  own  perverseness  we  have  shut  them  out 
or  grieved  them  away.  His  image  blends,  or 
ought  to  blend,  with  every  comfort,  hope,  and  joy. 
There  is  not  a  gift  of  Providence  which  he  does 
not  sanctify  for  our  use,  not  a  sorrow  in  which 
his  words  of  peace  are  not  breathed  for  us,  not  a 
cup  of  consolation  or  gladness  mingled  for  us  by 
the  Father,  which  he  does  not  help  fill. 

Now,  why  did  not  God  rain  down  righteous- 
ness upon  us  ?  Why,  instead  of  sending  his  spir- 
itual favors  as  he  does  the  dew  and  the  sum- 
mer shower,  did  he  give  them  to  us  through  the 
hands  of  a  Mediator  ?  Was  it  not  that  he  might 
make  that  Mediator  a  central  object  of  reverence, 
love,  and  gratitude,  and  fix  our  hearts  upon  him 
with  the  warmest  devotion,   so  that,  when  wo 


358  THE  lord's  supper. 

lifted  our  thanks  to  the  Father  of  all,  we  might 
praise  him,  not  only  for  his  gifts,  but  even  more 
for  that  chosen  Son  and  elder  Brother  through 
whom  he  had  bestowed  them?  Let  us,  then, 
prepare  at  the  holy  table  inwardly  to  recount  our 
Saviour's  benefits  to  us.  Ought  not  each  of  us 
to  be  able  to  make  such  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments as  these  ?  —  "  This  virtue  I  learned  of  him 
on  the  Mount.  That  sin  he  rebuked  in  me,  as 
he  taught  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  This  spiritual 
grace  I  have  copied  from  the  living  law  which  he 
held  forth.  His  meekness  has  made  me  gentle. 
His  prayer  for  his  murderers  has  taught  me  to 
forgive.  I  mourn  with  hope  for  my  pious  kin- 
dred ;  for  his  words  at  the  tomb  of  Lazarus  give 
me  peace.  I  bow  with  submission  under  trial,  I 
take  the  bitter  cup  without  repining,  I  murmur 
not  when  the  cross  is  laid  upon  my  shoulders ; 
for  I  have  watched  with  him  in  Gethsemane,  and 
have  trodden  with  him  the  path  to  Calvary. 
Death  has  no  terror  for  me ;  for  I  have  seen  his 
countenance  in  dying.  Eternity  is  full  of  hope 
for  me ;  for  it  is  lighted  by  rays  from  his  broken 
sepulclire." 

3.  Let  us,  also,  approach  the  holy  table,  as  a 
place  of  enlarged  communion  with  the  members, 
no  less  than  with  the  Head,  —  with  all  who  bear 
the  name  and  breathe  the  spirit  of  our  Master. ' 
Not  only  let  there  be  peace,  cordial  good-will, 
and  intimate  sympathy  witli  those  of  our  own 


THE  lord's  supper.  359 

little  flock,  but  here  especially  let  our  hearts  go 
forth  beyond  our  own  enclosure,  and  extend  a  siji- 
cere  fellowship  to  all  that  love  tlie  Lord  Jesus, 
under  whatever  form  or  creed  they  worship.  Nor 
let  our  communion  be  with  those  on  earth  alone. 
Heaven  and  earth  lie,  with  regard  to  each  other, 
as  did  the  holy  place  and  the  holy  of  holies  in 
the  old  Jewish  temple,  close  together,  and  yet  a 
thick  veil  between  them,  wiiich  veil  Jesus  came 
to  rend  away,  and  will  rend  it  utterly  away  in 
the  latter  days  for  all  who  shall  dwell  upon  the 
regenerated  earth.  If  the  veil  is  ever  parted 
now,  may  it  not  be,  ought  it  not  to  be,  at  the  festi- 
Yal  of  him  who  is  Lord  both  of  the  living  and  the 
dead,  —  in  whom  the  whole  family  in  heaven  and 
on  earth  is  one  ?  If  there  is  a  point  of  close 
union  between  the  two  worlds,  must  it  not  be  on 
heaven's  part,  should  it  not  be  on  ours,  at  this 
our  special  meeting-time  with  him  whom  the 
Church  above  and  below  unite  to  reverence  ? 
Nay,  with  regard  to  some,  the  veil  almost  visibly 
divides.  We  can  almost  see  with  the  bodily  eye 
the  revered  forms,  the  benignant  faces,  of  those 
fathers  and  mothers  in  Israel,  who  loved  this 
sanctuary  as  tlie  very  gate  of  heaven ;  and  witli 
them  come  back,  in  lifelike  remembrance,  many 
■who  went  behind  the  veil  in  tlie  full  prime  of 
usefulness  and  piety,  —  many,  too,  who  to  mor- 
tal eye  faded  as  the  summer  flower,  but  Avhom 
faith  beheld  passuig  from  the  outer  courts  to  the 


3G0  THE  lord's  supper. 

inner  sanctuary  of  their  God.  Let  these  com- 
munings witli  heaven  be  cherished  as  among  the 
choicest  means  of  lifting  us  above  grovelling  cares 
and  petty  sorrows,  of  sustaining  us  in  arduous 
duty  and  elevated  devotion,  and  making  our  daily 
conversation,  where  our  best  treasures  and  un- 
fading hopes  are,  in  heaven. 

4.  Finally,  we  should  meet  at  the  holy  table, 
not  only  as  friends  of  the  Redeemer,  but  as  fel- 
low-workers with  him,  —  as  those  on  whom  his 
parting  command  has  rested,  and  who  are  pledged 
to  sustain  his  cause  and  extend  his  reign  upon 
earth.  The  prayer,  "  Thy  kingdom  come," 
should  here  be  offered  with  peculiar  fervor,  and 
with  the  earnest  resolve  that  it  shall  come  in  part 
through  our  own  instrumentality.  We  here  com- 
memorate the  great  work  of  redemption ;  shall 
not  we  bear  part  in  it  ?  We  render  our  thank- 
offering  to  him  whose  name  was  Jesus,  —  he  shall 
save ;  shall  we  not  labor  with  him  in  the  saving 
of  souls  ? 

I  have  sometimes  thought,  from  the  apathy  of 
so  many  professed  Christians  to  the  great  work 
of  the  Saviour  and  his  Church,  that  the  flow  of 
their  reflections  at  the  altar  must  be  directly  the 
opposite  of  all  this,  —  that  many  a  self-compla- 
cent communicant,  Avith  a  sunny  smile  upon  his 
countenance,  and  with  a  really  grateful  and  be- 
nevolent cast  of  feeling,  yet  with  a  most  unchrist- 
like  narrowness  of  spirit,  may  say  to  himself,  as 


THE  lord's  supper.  361 

the  consecrated  elements  are  distributed, — "How 
mercifully  are  we  surrounded  by  bulwarks  of  sal- 
vation and  walls  of  praise  !     How  kindly  are  we 
cared  for,  with  the  word  of  truth  regularly  dis- 
pensed, and  the  feast  of  love  spread  in  its  due 
season,  with  no  weary  length  to  go  that  we  may 
worship  God,  with  no  sacrifice  to  make  for  the 
truth's  sake,  with  no  form  or  mode  of  self-denial, 
in  order  that  we  may  win  Christ  and  be  found  in 
him !     All  that  we  have  to  do  is  to  sit  quietly  on 
tlic  favoring  tide,  and  float  to  heaven."     These 
thoughts  may  pass,  and  the  communicant  may 
deem  them  pious   thoughts,   and  may  go   away 
imagining  that  he  has  had  a  season  of  refreshing 
from  the   Divine  presence ;  while  yet  there  has 
not  been  a  single  outgoing  of  spirit  for  a  world 
lying  in  ignorance  and  sin,  not  a  single  purpose 
of  effort  or  of  charity  in  any  cause  of  human 
progress  or  redemption,  not  a  shadowy  idea  that 
Christ  has  established  a  bond  of  sacred  obligation 
between   the  well  nourished  and  the  hungering 
and  thirsting  spirit.     Brethren,  Ave  have  not  thus 
learned  Christ.     Let  us  not,  then,  in  heart  and 
in  practice  receive  him  thus.     By  his  appoint- 
ment, every  disciple  is  a  missionary  of  his  cross, 
bound  in  some  Avay  or  form,  by  prayer,  by  influ- 
ence, by  effort,  by  the  mite  or  the  talent,  as  God 
shall  endow  him,  to  urge  on  the  cause  in  which 
the  Saviour  died,  and  for  which  he  ever  lives  to 
mtercede.     Let  vows  and  purposes  of  faithfulness 

SI 


3G2  THE  lord's  supper. 

to  the  work  which  he  has  given  his  Church  to  do 
mingle  with  the  solemnities  of  our  approaching 
communion  season.  And  may  we  so  eat  and 
drink  at  his  table,  discerning  the  Lord's  body, 
that  the  bread  may  nourish  us,  and  the  cup 
strengthen  us,  for  a  walk  of  growing  duty,  piety, 
and  love. 


SERMON    XXVIII 


THE     SOUL'S     SOLITUDE. 

I   HAVE   TRODDEN   THE  WINE-rKESS    ALOXE  ;  AND  OF   THE   PEO- 
PLE   THERE    WAS    NONE    WITH    ME.  Isaiall  Ixui.  3. 

'  We  arc  solitary  more  than  we  arc  social  beings. 
More  of  our  life  is  hidden  from  one  anotlier  than 
is  revealed  to  one  another.  Much  as  we  can 
communicate,  there  is  more  wliich  we  can  never 
disclose.  Intimate  as  the  union  of  spirits  often 
is,  they  are  like  trees  that  interlace  their  lower 
branches,  while  each  has  its  own  separate  root, 
and  each  its  own  separate  coronal  of  verdure. 
These  bodies  keep  our  souls  apart,  dwelling  in 
their  ^  several  tabernacles,  and  looking  at  one 
anotlier  and  holding  restricted  converse  from 
behind  the  curtains  of  their  tents.  Especially 
is  this  the  case  with  those  who  are  leading  spir- 
itual lives  and  aspiring  after  spiritual  excellence. 
In  speaking  thus,  I  do  not  undervalue  sucli  com- 
munion as  we  have  ;  though,  as  I  shall  show 
you,  the  most  precious  part  of  it  is  not  direct, 


3G4  THE  soul's  solitude. 

but  through  common  media  of  intercourse.  Yet, 
much  as  we  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  those  like- 
minded  with  us,  there  are  chambers  of  the  soul 
which  the  keenest  mortal  vision  can  never  pene- 
trate,—  secrets  of  the  heart  which  can  never  be 
revealed  or  discovered  on  earth.  Are  you  not 
all  conscious  of  this  ?  Is  there  one  of  you,  who 
feels  sure  that  he  thoroughly  knows  any  fellow- 
mortal,  or  believes  himself  to  be  thoroughly 
known  by  any  fellow-mortal? 

Language,  —  how  utterly  inadequate  to  con- 
vey our  deepest  experiences,  our  keenest  trials, 
our  profoundest  consolations,  our  richest  joys  ! 
Child  of  earth  and  of  sense,  her  ministry  is  per- 
fect only  when  outward  and  earthly  objects  are 
the  theme,  and  grows  less  and  less  sufficing  as 
she  approaches  the  deep  things  of  God  and  of  / 
eternity.  The  spirit  has  groanings  that  cannot 
be  uttered,  —  thoughts  which  it  can  revolve  in 
silent  musing,  and  pour  into  the  ear  of  Heaven 
in  silent  prayer,  but  which  in  great  part  elude 
the  drapery  of  words,  and  refuse  to  take  shape 
in  the  conventional  forms  of  speech.  Language 
is  strictly  accurate  and  fully  intelligible,  only 
when  it  relates  to  those  material  things  which 
we  can  identify  and  compare  by  the  organs  of 
sense.  When  I  speak  of  a  house  or  a  tree,  of 
the  sun  or  the  stars,  of  music  or  of  thunder,  I 
describe  what  must  needs  be  substantially  the 
same  to  other  eyes  and  ears  as  it  is  to  my  own. 


THE    SOUL  S    SOLITUDE.  3G5 

But  wlicn  I  speak  of  motive,  desire,  temptation, 
aspiration,  love,  peace,  I  can  convey  only  the 
same  sort  of  conception,  not  precisely  the  same 
conception,  that  is  in  my  own  mhid.  I  may  con- 
vey ]norc  ;  I  may  convey  less.  The  person  to 
whom  I  speak  measures  my  consciousness  by  his 
own,  and  how  widely  apart  these  may  be  neither 
he  nor  I  can  tell.  And  then  how  frequently  is 
thought  forced  into  the  very  mode  of  utterance 
most  unlike  itself!  Thus  the  most  frigid  words 
proceed  as  often  from  the  profoundest  emotion,, 
as  from  a  superficial  and  passionless  nature.  We 
are  so  painfully  conscious  of  feeling  more  than 
we  can  express,  as  to  utter  very  much  less  than 
we  might  say.  Thus  some  of  the  warmest  hearts 
are  among  the  most  reserved,  and  those  who  the 
most  earnestly  long  for  sympathy  frequently  ob- 
tain the  least  of  it 

In  temptation  and  in  sj^iritual  conflict,  we  must 
tread  the  wine-press  alone.  No  human  eye  can 
behold  the  embattled  hosts  of  passions  and  affec- 
tions, of  the  thoughts  that  grovel  and  the  thouglits 
that  climb,  of  the  earth-spirit  with  its  evil  angels 
and  the  spirit  of  the  Father  with  the  powers  of 
the  world  to  come.  The  warfare  is  within. 
Voices  of  encouragement  may  help  us.  The  in- 
tercessions of  those  who  love  us  may  make  our 
prayer  flow  with  a  freer  current.  But,  after  all, 
the  brunt  of  the  battle  we  must  sustain  alone, 
and  in  the  momentous  decisions  on  which  de- 

31  * 


3G6  THE  soul's  solitude. 

pcnds  our  fall  or  our  rising  as  spiritual  beings 
no  man  can  give  an  answer  for  his  neighbor. 

In  our  trials  and  griefs  we  must  tread  the 
wine-press  alone.  There  are  indeed  portions  of 
every  sorrow  that  are  common  with  others,  and 
in  these  we  court  sympathy,  and  it  gives  us 
comfort.  Widow  can  condole  with  widow ;  the 
bereaved  parent  is  solaced  by  communion  with 
those  who  have  passed  through  similar  afflic- 
tion ;  the  infirm  and  suffering  rejoice  in  the  con- 
verse of  those  who  have  borne  burdens  like  their 
own.  But  in  every  deep  grief  there  is  some 
pro  founder  depth,  which  only  he  who  bears  it 
has  sounded  or  can  sound.  There  is  a  limit  be- 
yond which  fellow-feeling  cannot  pass.  In  every 
bereavement  there  are  wounded  some  of  those 
peculiar  chords  of  tender  feeling,  which  we  can 
trace  in  no  other  heart,  and  no  one  else  can  dis- 
cern in  ours.  There  is  a  portion  of  our  burden 
which  we  cannot  impart.  There  are  lacerated 
sensibilities  which  we  cannot  describe.  There 
are  painful  reflections,  regretful  remembrances, 
burningly  distinct  to  our  own  souls,  to  which  we 
know  not  how  to  give  utterance. 

In  the  responsibilities  of  life  we  must  tread  the 
wine-press  alone.  The  precise  measure  of  each 
one's  stewardship,  the  adjustment  of  his  conflict- 
ing obligations,  the  right  balance  of  mutually  lim- 
ited duties,  the  due  proportions  of  activity  in  this 
and  in  that  direction,  —  these  depend  on  circum- 


THE  soul's  solitude.  3G7 

stances  wliicli  tlic  individual  alone  can  fully  know. 
Fundamental  principles  may  indeed  be  expound- 
ed and  urged  by  others.  The  great  heads  of  ob- 
ligation may  be  enforced  with  persuasive  power 
by  the  pulpit  or  the  press.  Religious  counsel 
or  exhortation  may  awaken  the  slumbering  con- 
science, and  stimulate  to  vigorous  action  the 
dormant  powers  of  the  moral  nature.  But  when 
all  this  is  done,  there  arc  many  questions  of  de- 
tail —  those  too  of  the  most  solemn  import  — 
which  no  man  can  answer  for  another,  and  in 
which  ho  who  yields  passively  to  the  best  advice, 
to  the  most  importunate  appeal,  to  the  purest  ex- 
ample short  of  the  all-perfect,  may  be  false  to 
his  trust  and  to  his  own  soul.  Duty  is  in  the 
last  resort  to  be  determined  by  the  individual 
conscience,  and  to  his  own  Master  must  each  one 
stand  or  fall. 

In  the  hour  of  death,  of  judgment,  and  of  ret- 
ribution, we  must  tread  the  wine-press  alone. 
In  its  own  strength  or  weakness,  unclothed  or 
clothed  in  its  own  Christ-bought  robe  of  peni- 
tence and  piety,  must  the  soul  wage  the  fearful 
conflict  with  the  last  enemy.  The  prayer  of  f\iitli 
may  indeed  go  up  by  the  deathbed  ;  but  only  the 
prayer  of  the  dying  soul  can  bring  down  the  min- 
istry of  angels  and  the  peace  of  God.  And  who 
shall  stand  as  his  brother's  advocate  before  the 
Judge  of  the  living  and  the  dead  ?  How  solemn 
the  thought  of  that  first  interview  of  the  disem- 


oG8  THE  soul's  solitude. 

bodied  spirit  with  its  Father,  —  no  human  char- 
ity at  hand  to  cover  the  sins  it  cannot  heal ;  no 
faulty  examples  or  imperfect  standards  to  justify 
its  shortcomings  ;  no  surrounding  circle  of  the 
equally  frail  and  erring  to  drown  the  conscious- 
ness of  its  frailties  and  to  palliate  its  errors  ! 
Alone  with  God,  —  unveiled,  self-knowing,  the 
depths  of  memory  and  of  consciousness  broken 
up,  the  secrets  of  the  heart  laid  open,  —  thus 
must  we  meet  the  omniscient  eye,  and  receive 
the  sentence  which  consigns  us  to  the  company 
of  kindred  spirits,  to  the  kingdom  prepared  for 
us,  to  joy  unspeakable  or  to  unknown  woe. 

Thus  must  we,  in  our  most  momentous  ex- 
periences, living  and  dying,  tread  the  wine-press 
alone,  and  of  the  people,  nay,  of  the  dearest  and 
best  beloved,  there  can  be  none  Avitli  us.  What 
are  the  appointed  resources  for  this  spiritual 
loneliness  ? 

In  the  first  place,  there  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
a  reality  in  Christian  fellowship,  as  bringing 
human  hearts  into  more  intimate  union  than 
can  subsist  through  any  other  agency.  Our  di- 
rect knowledge  of  one  another  and  communi- 
cation with  one  another  are,  as  I  have  said, 
greatly  restricted  by  the  essential  poverty  and 
inadequacy  of  language.  We  need  a  mediator, 
not  only  between  man  and  God,  but  between 
man  and  man  ;  and  in  the  latter  office  no  less 
than  in  the  former,  Christ  stands  to  his  disciples. 


THE  soul's  solitude.  309 

Wo  Jiro  one  in  liim.  Our  fellowship  is  with  liim, 
and  through  him  with  one  another.  He  is  the 
common  standard  and  measure  of  spirit  and  char- 
acter for  his  followers.  So  far  as  wo  are  united 
with  him,  we  are  conscious  of  possesshig  the  same 
spirit ;  the  same  life-tide  throbs  in  our  hearts  ; 
the  same  aspirations  go  forth  ;  the  same  inward 
peace,  gladness,  and  strength  settle  down  upon 
our  souls.  He  is  absolute  goodness,  —  not  only 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever,  but 
the  same  in  his  moral  lineaments  to  you  and 
to  me,  to  men  of  diverse  nations,  unlike  forms, 
and  conflicting  creeds  ;  and  by  conversance  with 
the  beauty  of  holiness  in  him,  we  may  learn  to 
trace,  with  clear  recognition  and  cordial  sympa- 
thy, the  Christian  elements  —  the  "  Christ-side," 
if  1  may  so  speak  —  of  every  character. 

Thus  your  temptations  may  be  widely  unlike 
mine,  and  neither  could  convey  to  the  other  the 
map  of  his  battle-ground  or  the  history  of  his 
conflicts  ;  but  of  the  principles  through  which 
we  have  overcome,  of  tlie  helping  spirit  from 
tlie  Father  which  has  made  its  strength  perfect 
in  our  weakness,  of  the  Divine  Form  which  has 
preceded  us  as  the  Captain  of  our  salvation,  we 
can  freely  commune,  and  hardly  need  words  to 
make  our  communion  perfect,  so  fully  conscious 
are  we  of  the  identity  of  the  Saviour's  part  in 
the  experience  of  both.  Our  trials  and  our  griefs 
too  have  much  that  we  cannot  impart;  but  the 


370  THE  soul's  solitude. 

consolations  of  the  Gospel,  the  words  of  peace, 
the  promises  of  Christ,  the  spirit  of  implicit  trust 
and  serene  resignation,  the  "  one  like  unto  the 
Son  of  Man  "  that  is  with  us  in  the  furnace  sev- 
en times  heated,  —  these  are  the  same  to  every 
Christian  heart,  the  tokens  of  that  presence 
which  is  without  variableness  or  shadow  of  turn- 
ing. Thus,  also,  we  may  not  fully  enter  into  one 
another's  position  and  circumstances,  so  as  to  an- 
swer one  for  another  those  delicate  questions  of 
duty  in  which  the  Christian  must  take  chief  or 
sole  counsel  of  his  conscience  and  his  God ;  but 
we  can  fully  sympathize  in  the  loyalty  to  our 
common  Master,  which  sustains  us  on  our  sepa- 
rate paths,  and  gives  a  harmony  of  purpose  and 
action  to  all  the  various  forms  and  aspects  of 
Christian  obedience. 

The  term  "  Christian  "  has  for  all  whose  ex- 
perience has  helped  them  to  define  it  a  fixed  and 
absolute  meaning,  and  so  far  as  we  realize  its 
meaning  in  our  own  souls,  we  know  what  it 
means  in  every  other  soul  and  life.  Thus  is  it 
that,  with  no  other  bond  and  with  everything 
else  dissimilar,  the  sincere  followers  of  Christ  can 
easily  enter  into  the  most  intimate  relations,  and 
can  know  more  of  each  otlier  in  an  hour  than 
if  they  stood  side  by  side  for  a  lifetime  on  any 
worldly  arena.  Thus,  in  those  great  emergen- 
cies of  trial,  grief,  and  arduous  duty,  when  or- 
dinary sympathy  becomes  distant  and  the  closest 


THE  soul's  solitude.  371 

associates  seem  to  move  as  in  an  outer  circle, 
Christian  may  approach  Christian,  thougli  tliey 
never  saw  each  other's  face  before,  may  converse 
in  a  known  language,  and  from  heart  to  heart 
may  flow  the  consohitions  tliat  are  in  Christ  Je- 
sus, the  breatliings  of  the  hope  full  of  immortality, 
the  emanations  of  a  peace  which  the  world  can- 
not give.  And  in  the  last  conflict,  when  kindred 
that  are  not  kindred  in  Christ  must  leave  the 
soul  alone,  and  must  feel  that  intercourse  has 
ceased  though  consciousness  still  remains,  the 
Christian  can  go  down  with  his  fellow-Christian 
to  the  margin  of  the  stream  that  divides  the  un- 
seen world  from  this,  and  can  know  the  joy  that 
fills  his  heart,  the  communion  with  heaven  that 
looses  for  him  the  pains  of  death,  the  glad  vis- 
ions of  eternity  that  play  before  his  departing 
spirit,  the  voice  of  "  God  that  justificth  "  calling 
him  from  the  outer  courts  of  the  Father's  house 
into  the  holy  of  holies. 

We  have  also  direct  communion  with  Christ. 
We  rely  on  his  word,  "  Lo,  I  am  with  you  al- 
Avays."  Tempted  as  we  have  been,  touched  with 
the  feeling  of  our  infirmities,  our  brother  in  trial 
and  in  grief,  our  forerunner  through  the  shadow 
of  death  and  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  he  can 
enter  into  our  every  experience,  into  the  depths 
of  our  inmost  consciousness,  and  we  can  feel  as- 
sured of  his  entire  sympathy  in  thoughts  too  pro- 
found for  utterance,  in  conflicts  which  have  no 


0/2  THE    SOULS    SOLITUDE. 

Iniman  witness,  in  our  peculiar  and  incommuni- 
cable griefs,  in  doubts  and  fears  which  the  near- 
est earthly  friend  knows  not  and  can  never  know. 
0,  it  is  a  thought  rich  in  comfort  and  encourage- 
ment that  he  is  thus  with  us,  —  that  the  fellow- 
feeling  which  we  can  fully  realize  in  no  human 
friend  is  with  him  entire  and  intimate,  so  that 
there  is  for  us  no  unshared  burden,  no  undivid- 
ed sorrow,  no  worthy  desire  which  he  proffers 
not  for  and  with  us,  no  fervent  prayer  which  is 
not  upborne  and  seconded  by  him  who  "  ever  liv- 
eth  to  make  intercession  for  us." 

Among  the  many  uses  of  our  Saviour's  incar- 
nation, —  among  the  many  reasons  why  God  has 
ordained  that  his  richest  spiritual  favors  shall  flow 
to  us  not  directly  from  himself,  but  through  a 
Mediator  in  human  form,  —  we  cannot  attach  an 
unduly  high  importance  to  this  provision  for  the 
spiritual  solitude  in  which  we  are  often  left,  so 
far  as  man  is  concerned.  It  is  not  a  mere  fan- 
cy, but  a  blessed  experience,  as  I  trust  many  of 
you  can  bear  witness  with  me.  In  arduous  and 
thankless  duty,  has  it  not  seemed  to  us  as  if  Jesus 
were  treading  the  wine-press  with  us,  and  were 
saying  in  our  inward  ear,  "  Be  thou  faithful  unto 
death,  —  be  thou  of  good  cheer  ;  for  I  have  over- 
come the  world  "  ?  When  the  lives  of  those  dear 
both  to  us  and  to  him  have  trembled  on  the 
verge  of  death,  has  there  not  been  that  in  our 
hearts  which  corresponded  to  the  message  sent 


THE  soul's  solitude.  373 

by  the  sisters  of  Bethany,  — ''  Lord,  behold,  lie 
whom  thou  lovest  is  sick  "  ?  Has  it  not  been  an 
unspeakable  consolation  to  us,  that  he,  whom  dis- 
eases obeyed,  is  no  less  near  to  mortal  homes  and 
hearts  than  in  the  days  of  his  flesh,  and,  thougli 
he  may  not  as  then  speak  the  healing  word,  that 
he  can  impart  to  the  dying  and  the  living  peace 
not  as  the  world  gives  ?  In  the  death  of  those 
whom  the  Lord  loves,  can  we  divest  ourselves, 
or  would  Ave  if  we  could,  of  the  simple,  beautiful 
faitli  of  the  hymn,  — 

"  'Tis  but  the  voice  that  Jesus  sends. 
To  call  them  to  his  arms  "  ? 

When  we  look  forward  to  our  own  death,  is  it  on 
the  abstract  truths  of  religion  that  we  rely  ;  or  is 
it  not  rather  on  the  personal  presence  and  sym- 
pathy of  our  Redeemer,  and  are  not  our  dearest 
hopes  expressed  when  we  can  say  to  the  Good 
Shepherd,  "  Though  I  pass  through  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death,  1  will  fear  no  evil,  for 
thou  art  with  me  "  ? 

Again,  we  are  not  alone ;  for  the  Father  is  with 
us.  He  has  restricted  our  fellowship  with  man, 
that  we  may  seek  the  closer  communion  Avith 
him.  He  has  ordained  that  we  should  be  alone, 
that  we  may  be  alone  with  him.  Prayer,  though 
cherished  by  utterance,  needs  not  Avords,  nor  even 
the  capacity  of  utterance,  but  may  often  be  most 
fervent  Avhen  Ave  knoAV  not  what  to  pray  for  as 
Ave  ought.      The  spirit  of  adoption  —  the   cry, 

32 


O^i  THE    SOULS    SOLITUDE. 

^' Abba,  Father,"  as  it  trembles  in  the  heart  — 
is  in  itself  a  perpetual  prayer.  It  is  prayer,  when 
we  are  profoundly  conscious  that  God  is  more 
closely  conversant  with  our  spirits  than  we  our- 
selves are,  though  we  can  only  say,  —  "  Lord, 
thou  knowest  all  things ;  thou  knowest  that 
I  love  thee."  What  an  unspeakable  relief  is 
it,  —  when  we  are  misapprehended  by  others, 
when  our  attainments  fall  short  of  our  aspira- 
tions, when  diffidence  represses  the  utterances 
of  which  the  heart  is  full,  when  we  can  let  no 
mortal  friend  into  our  deepest  emotions  and  our 
warmest  desires,  when  we  are  alone  in  conflict 
or  in  sorrow,  —  in  those  crises  of  the  inward 
nature  which  no  human  sympathy  can  reach  or 
human  help  avail,  —  to  feel  that  God  sees  us  as 
we  are,  that  the  darkness  which  veils  our  spirits 
from  mortal  sight  hides  them  not  from  him  to 
whom  the  night  shineth  as  the  day  !  Let  this 
then  be  our  constant  resort  in  the  loneliness  of 
the  soul.  Let  us  rejoice  that  to  him  are  our 
hearts  known,  our  desires  open,  and  no  secret 
thing  hidden ;  and  let  the  consciousness  that  he 
is  thus  with  us  make  the  words  of  our  lips  and 
the  meditations  of  our  hearts  always  acceptable 
in  his  sight. 

Finally,  this  solitude  of  the  spirit  directs  our 
thouglits  and  hopes  to  tlie  sphere  of  being  where 
we  shall  fully  know  and  be  fully  known,  where 
the  separating  wall  of  the  body  shall  fall  away, 


THE    SOUL  S    SOLITUDE.  375 

soul  spring  to  soul,  and  heart  unite  with  heart. 
We  cannot  but  believe  that  closer  society,  more 
intimate  union  than  we  can  enjoy  liere,  is  reserved 
for  us  in  heaven,  —  that  tliere  will  be  a  blending 
of  spirit  with  spirit  of  wliich  the  present  laws  of 
intercourse  are  but  an  imperfect  type  and  a  vague 
shadow.  This  is  one  of  tlie  visions  of  the  future 
life  wliich  is  adapted  to  give  richer  zest  to  our 
hope  of  reunion  in  heaven  with  tliose  whom  wo 
love  best  on  earth.  How  liaA^e  we  often  longed 
for  a  deeper  insight  into  the  souls  of  those  who 
have  been  our  exemplars  and  guides  in  duty, 
who  have  here  breathed  the  most  of  the  spirit 
of  heaven !  When  we  have  drawn  close  the 
bonds  of  our  communion,  how  have  we  desired 
that  tliey  might  be  closer  still,  —  that  there 
might  be  a  fuller  interchange  of  sentiment  and 
feeling  than  could  be  borne  from  heart  to  heart 
by  lip  or  look !  Of  the  mode  of  spiritual  inter- 
course we  can  indeed  form  no  clear  conception. 
This  only  we  know,  —  that  from  the  Divine  Spirit 
there  are  thoughts  communicated  to  our  minds, 
impressions  borne  in  upon  our  souls,  without 
voice,  or  sound,  or  any  of  tlie  outward  machin- 
ery of  intercourse.  Why  may  not  spirit,  in  the 
future,  commune  with  spirit,  as  the  Father  of 
our  spirits  now  communes  with  us  all  ?  Why 
may  not  each  s^nritual  presence  be,  as  it  were, 
translucent  to  every  other,  and  sentiment,  af- 
fection, adoration,  be  transfused,  as  it  is  even 


376  THE    SOUL  S    SOLITUDE. 

now  in  our  best  and  happiest  moments  from  the 
pressure  of  the  hand,  the  quivering  of  the  lip, 
the  glow  of  the  countenance  ?  However  this 
may  be,  there  can  be  no  division-walls  in  the 
heavenly  household,  —  there  must  be  there  un- 
restricted converse,  perfect  mutual  knowledge, 
society  so  close  that  spirit  shall  answer  to  spirit 
as  face  to  face  does  now. 

Shall  not  this  hope  bring  us  into  nearer  and 
happier  fellowship  even  here  ?  Shall  not  our 
communings  be  such  as  we  shall  delight  to  re- 
new and  prolong  in  heaven  ?  0,  while  we  must 
tread  the  wine-press  alone,  let  us  aspire  after  the 
closer  communion  that  pervades  the  ranks  of  the 
redeemed.  In  our  households,  let  our  converse 
be  not  only  of  the  things  that  change  and  per- 
ish, but  of  those  things  which  the  angels  desire 
to  look  into.  As  fellow-disciples  let  hand  join 
hand,  and  heart  draw  nigh  to  heart,  as  we  move 
on  in  our  Christ-marked  way.  Let  the  chosen, 
dearest  themes  of  our  converse  be  those  which 
we  shall  rejoice  to  recall  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
in  the  assembly  of  the  redeemed,  among  the  ador- 
ing hosts  near  the  eternal  throne. 


SERMON  XXIX. 


HOPE  THE  SOUL'S  ANCHOR. 

WHICH  HOPE  WE  HAVE  AS  AN  ANCHOR  OF  THE  SOUL,  BOTH 
SURE  AND  STEADFAST,  AND  WHICH  ENTERETH  INTO  THAT 

WITHIN  THE  VEIL.  —  Hebrcws  vi.  19. 

This  comparison  of  hope  with  an  anchor  is  op- 
posed to  common  modes  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion. The  more  natural  figure  to  most  minds 
would  be  that  of  a  buoy.  I  apprehend  that, 
where  that  of  the  anchor  is  employed,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  it  is  quoted  from  the  Bible  with- 
out any  definite  meaning.  Yet  I  do  not  believe 
that  it  was  used  at  haphazard  in  our  text ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  numerous  cases  in  which 
a  profound  wealth  of  spiritual  significance  is 
condensed  into  a  single  word  of  Scripture.  All 
hope  is  not  anchor-like  ;  or,  if  it  be,  there  are 
many  hopes  which  are  anchors  Avith  cables  too 
short  to  reach  the  bottom,  and  which  therefore 
only  expose  the  vessel  to  quicker,  more  irregular, 
and  more  violent  pitches  and  plunges  in  the 
storm-lifted  deep. 

32* 


378         HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR. 

Following  out  our  figure  with  regard  to  world- 
ly affairs,  w^e  can  easily  see  that  the  length  of  the 
cahle  makes  a  surprising  difference.  The  strong 
hope  of  some  gratification  of  to-morrow  unsettles 
to-day's  life,  unfits  us  for  to-day's  duty,  and  sus- 
tains a  feverish  excitement,  under  which  time  is 
Avasted,  obligation  violated,  and  even  principle 
endangered.  The  approaching  lioliday  crazes 
the  schoolboy,  and  the  teacher  must  expect  only 
slighted  tasks  and  incessant  mischief  till  the  holi- 
day is  over.  The  near  prospect  of  intense  but 
evanescent  joy  is  hardly  less  a  disturbing  force  to 
the  else  contented  and  industrious  adult,  whose 
continuous  toil  thus  becomes  spasmodic,  while  his 
usually  sober  habits  of  thought  lapse  into  reverie. 
But  a  distant  hope  has  a  very  .different  effect. 
The  boy  who  hopes  at  some  future  time  to  sup- 
port his  impoverished  parents  ;  the  youth  who 
hopes  for  a  good  name  and  a  fair  place  in  his 
chosen  profession ;  the  man  who  hopes  for  com- 
petence and  honor,  which  he  can  win  only  by 
patient  effort,  —  all  these  find  hope  an  availing 
anchor.  It  moors  them  ;  it  steadies  them  against 
l)reeze  and  current,  gale  and  storm ;  it  keeps  them 
from  temptation,  and  delivers  them  from  evil. 

The  anchor  needs  a  length  of  cable  sufficient, 
but  not  too  great ;  adequate  weight ;  and  the  ad- 
justment of  stock,  shankj  and  flukes,  which  will 
most  effectually  liold  the  ship  to  her  moorings. 
These  characteristics  applied  to  spiritual  things 


noi»E  THE  soul's  anchor.  379 

would  give  lis  adequate  remoteness,  vastness,  and 
certainty  as  the  requisite  properties  of  a  hope  that 
shall  be  an  anchor  to  the  soul. 

I.  Adequate  remoteness.  Remote  in  point  of 
time  we  cannot,  indeed,  pronounce  the  objects  of 
the  Christian  hope ;  for  there  may  be  at  any  mo- 
ment but  a  step  between  us  and  death.  Yet  the 
due  effect  of  distance  is  produced,  in  part  by  the 
indefmiteness  of  our  term  of  life  here,  and  in 
part  by  our  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  details 
of  our  future  condition.  Did  we  know  that 
our  lives  would  be  greatly  prolonged  on  the 
earth,  our  anchor  would  then  have  indeed  a 
superfluous  length  of  cable,  and  we  should  be 
tempted  to  give  unrestrained  scope  to  the  en- 
joyments of  the  passing  day,  and  to  postpone  till 
the  last  few  years  or  months  the  work  which 
belongs  to  all  our  time,  and  is  the  easier  and 
more  entire  the  earlier  it  is  begun.  On  the  other 
hand,  did  we  know  the  day  of  our  death  to  be 
very  near,  the  cable  of  our  anchor  would  be  in- 
juriously shortened,  —  the  prospect  would  im- 
pair our  active  powers,  derange  our  plans  both 
of  self-improvement  and  of  social  duty,  and  trans- 
fer us  from  the  list  of  workers  to  tliat  of  anxious 
expectants.  So,  too,  had  we  the  same  clear  con- 
ception of  the  life  of  heaven  which  we  have  of 
approaching  seasons  of  earthly  festivity  and  glad- 
ness, the  view  would  be  so  overpoweringly  grand 
and  attractive  as  to  throw  all  temporal  interests 


380  HOPE    THE    soul's    ANCHOR. 

and  enjoyments  into  undue  insignificance,  to  make 
us  imjDatient  for  the  time  of  our  departure,  and 
discontented  under  the  yoke  of  daily  duty.  But 
now  the  uncertainty  tliat  rests  on  the  closing 
hour  is  adapted  to  make  us  diligent  without  im- 
patience, to  help  us  use  the  world  without  abus- 
ing it,  to  keep  the  field  of  duty  and  discipline 
fully  open  for  us,  without  inspiring  disgust,  wea- 
riness, or  inordinate  longing  for  a  change.  At 
the  same  time,  just  enough  of  the  unseen  future 
is  revealed  to  feed  desire,  without  casting  too 
deep  a  shadow  on  earthly  good,  to  make  us  will- 
ing to  depart,  and  yet  willing  to  await  God's  time 
and  way  for  our  removal.  The  hopeful  Christian 
sees  heaven  near  enough  to  furnish  every  possi- 
ble motive  for  virtue,  fidelity,  and  spiritual  affec- 
tions, yet  not  near  enough  to  detach  him  from 
the  relations  in  which  God  woidd  have  him  con- 
scientiously faithful,  —  from  the  field  of  duty  of 
which  the  Master  says,  "  Occupy  till  I  come." 

II.  Our  Christian  anchor  is  of  sufficient  weight. 
The  prospect  of  heaven,  though  indefinite,  is  vast. 
Though  a  veil  hangs  before  the  glory  and  joy  to 
be  revealed,  it  is  a  semi-transparent  veil,  through 
which  we  get  grand  and  gorgeous  glimpses  of  the 
celestial  city.  What  an  unspeakable  amount  of 
happiness  is  proffered  us  here,  in  the  crowded  god- 
sends of  a  benignant  Providence,  compassing  our 
path  and  our  lying  down,  poured  out  with  unstint- 
ed hand  on  all  our  ways,  —  in  the  kindly  course 


HOPE    THE    soul's    ANCHOR.  381 

and  beautiful  liarmony  of  nature,  —  in  our  homes, 
and  in  those  genial  relations  witli  our  fellovv^-he- 
ings  by  which  blessings  are  multiplied  because 
divided,  magnified  because  shared  !  Yet,  Avith 
the  full  perception  of  all  that  can  here  minister 
to  our  joy,  it  is  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal 
weight  of  glory  that  lies  before  us.  The  earth- 
ly fades  when  brought  into  comparison  with  the 
heavenly.  Time  presents  no  attractions  that  can 
vie  with  the  promises  of  eternity.  Our  concep- 
tions of  heaven  are  enough  to  more  than  fill  the 
soul  with  their  fulness,  and  to  outshine  all  things 
else  by  tlieir  divine  radiance.  The  imagery  of 
the  New  Testament  carries  fancy  on  to  its  utmost 
limits,  and  up  till  its  pinions  can  soar  no  higher. 
In  these  boundless  and  infinite  prospects,  we  have 
more  tlian  a  counterpoise  for  whatever  might  be- 
guile our  souls  from  their  high  calling  and  des- 
tiny. 

III.  Our  Christian  anchor  has  its  firm  hold  of 
certain  and  immovable  evidence.  Little  as  we 
know  where  or  what  heaven  is,  no  law  of  our  be- 
ing is  made  more  sure  to  us  than  our  immortality. 
Its  evidence  is  not  intuition,  surmise,  specula- 
tion, or  longing,  but  fact  which  cannot  be  gain- 
said, unless  we  pronounce  the  whole  past  a  dream 
and  all  history  a  fable.  We  have  the  same  proof 
that  the  dead  have  risen,  which  we  have  that 
countless  multitudes  have  sunk  into  the  death- 
blumber.     The  resurrection  of  Christ  is  not  even 


382         HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR. 

an  isolated  fact  of  authentic  history,  but  a  fact 
wliich  has  left  surer  traces  of  its  reality,  deeper 
cliannels  of  its  influence,  than  any  other  event 
tliat  has  occurred  since  the  creation  of  man. 
It  was  the  initial  cause,  and  the  only  possible 
cause,  of  a  series  of  events  and  experiences  that 
have  been  developing  themselves  for  eighteen 
hundred  years.  There  is  no  ground  on  which 
we  believe  anything  beyond  the  range  of  our 
senses,  on  which  the  whole  Gospel  history,  with 
Christ's  resurrection  for  its  culminating  incident, 
does  not  commend  itself  to  belief.  Thus,  do  we 
:  receive  human  testimony  ?  Here  we  have  its 
blended  and  manifold  voices.  Do  effects  indi- 
cate a  cause  ?  Here  we  have  numberless  and 
vast  effects,  which  were  all  uncaused  unless  the 
Gospel  narrative  be  true.  Is  the  consenting  voice 
of  large  and  varied  experience  a  valid  ground  of 
argument  ?  TTliat  xi  cloud  of  witnesses  have  we 
here  to  the  reality  of  every  spiritual  phenome- 
non that  should  result  from  the  fact  of  a  resur- 
rection and  the  demonstrated  certainty  of  the  life 
to  come !  Is  the  Author  of  our  being  competent 
to  attest  its  laws  and  its  destiny  ?  If  so,  what 
conceivable  testimony  other  than  miracle  could 
he  bear,  and  how  could  that  attestation  be  clear- 
er and  stronger  than  he  has  made  it  in  the 
Gospel  ? 

In  thus  laying  intense  stress  on  the  historical 
argument,  I  forget  not   the  intimations  of  im- 


HOPE  THE  soul's  anchor.  383 

mortality,  tlic  hopoful  analogies,  the  onward  point- 
ings, of  which  nature  and  life  arc  full.  When 
Nature  wakes  from  her  wintry  slumber,  and  the 
life-current  throbs  anew  in  the  withered  trees, 
and  field  and  forest  resume  their  robes  of  praise, 
we  revisit  the  mounds  in  the  graveyard  with  a 
renewed  glow  of  hope.  In  the  outblooming  of 
the  world  around  us,  wo  feci  a  more  clastic  as- 
surance that  the  blighted  blossoms  of  our  homes 
and  hearts  bloom  in  celestial  gardens.  But  when 
in  autumn  all  looks  worn  and  faded,  a  troop  of 
mournful  associations  and  sad  analogies  come 
thronging  into  the  mind  again  ;  the  soul  that  re- 
lies on  the  teachings  of  Nature  yields  to  the  sur- 
rounding gloom ;  and  the  snow  that  falls  upon 
the  late  green  graves  falls  with  deadening  weight 
upon  the  hope  of  man.  But  the  spring  flowers 
that  bloom  around  the  sepulchre  of  Jesus  never 
wither. 

Again,  there  are  times  when  our  souls  seem 
almost  conscious  of  immortality,  spring  forth  in- 
to a  higher  sphere,  behold  their  celestial  birtli- 
right,  and  read  the  words  of  eternal  life  in  capaci- 
ties which  they  have  no  room  to  develop  here, 
in  longings  which  earth  cannot  satisfy,  in  aspi- 
rations that  transcend  all  created  good.  But 
weariness,  care,  or  sorrow  comes ;  and  then  the 
wings  of  the  spirit  droop,  its  heaven  is  clouded 
over,  and  to  him  who  depends  on  his  own  clear 
intuition  all  looks  dark  and  desolate.      But  the 


384         HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR. 

Christian  thus  bowed  down  stoops  to  look  into 
the  place  where  the  Lord  lay,  hears  the  voice  of 
the  resurrection  angel,  and  sees,  through  a  cleft 
in  the  clouds,  the  shining  path  of  the  ascending 
Redeemer. 

No  one  can  recognize  more  cordially  than  I 
would  the  correspondences  between  the  outward 
and  the  spiritual  world,  —  the  Scriptures  old  as 
the  creation,  on  which  God  has  inscribed  images 
and  symbols  of  the  very  same  truths  that  he  has 
revealed  in  the  written  word.  To  my  eye,  the 
law  of  man's  immortality  is  typified  in  the  wheat- 
sheaf  springing  from  the  dry  and  shrunken  ker- 
nel, in  the  butterfly  soaring  aloft  from  the  tomb 
which  the  earth-worm  had  spun,  in  the  tendency, 
through  all  departments  of  nature,  of  lower  forms 
of  life  to  merge  themselves  in  higher.  I  would 
own,  too,  with  the  warmest  gratitude,  those  ele- 
ments of  our  spiritual  nature,  which,  confined 
and  crippled  here,  like  the  germ  in  the  im- 
planted seed,  claim  a  more  genial  soil,  a  more 
propitious  sky,  for  their  full  development.  But 
I  always  find  that  tliese  views  come  the  most 
readily  to  my  mind  when  it  is  free,  unburdened, 
and  happy.  Under  tlie  pressure  of  bereavement 
or  despondency,  like  summer  friends,  they  vanish, 
or  linger  at  the  threshold,  cold  and  ungenial  com- 
forters. It  is  then  tliat  avc  need  to  see  immor- 
tality revealed,  the  eternal  life  made  manifest; 
and  more  would  I  prize  in  ihe  season  of  need  a 


HOPE  THE  soul's  anchor.  385 

sinixle  realizing  glimpse  of  the  scene  at  the  gate 
of  Naiii  or  the  tomb  of  Lazarus,  or  a  single  glance 
of  implicit  faith  at  the  forsaken  sepulchre  of  Jesus, 
than  all  sources  of  belief  from  beyond  the  Gospel 
record,  were  tliey  brought  to  one  fountain-head, 
and  poured  over  my  spirit  in  their  fullest  flow. 

AVe  have,  then,  a  hope  fitted  to  be  an  anchor  of 
the  soul,  and  we  need  it  to  give  us  stability  equal- 
ly among  the  temptations,  the  duties,  and  the  tri- 
als of  life. 

1.  Among  its  temptations.  How  close  their 
pressure  !  How  intense  their  disturbing  force  ! 
Like  the  swell  of  a  storm-lifted  ocean,  they  break 
upon  our  youth,  dash  against  the  strength  of  our 
maturer  years,  and  burst  over  the  hoary  head. 
Appetite  and  passion,  pride  and  gain,  case  and 
indolence,  how  do  they  essay  by  turns  their  sin- 
gle and  their  combined  power  upon  every  soul  of 
man  !  How  do  they  toss  and  dash  from  breaker 
to  breaker,  and  from  shallow  to  shallow,  every 
luianchored  spirit !  And  their  hold  upon  iis  is  as 
unanchored  spirits,  —  through  our  intense  desire 
of  immediate  gratification  and  our  detachment 
from  the  imseen  future.  Their  talisman  is  the 
infidel's  creed ;  their  watchword,  "  Immortality 
is  a  dream."  They  get  influence  over  us  solely 
by  shaking  piir  conviction,  or  drowning  our  con- 
sciousness, of  a  life  beyond  tlie  present.  They 
assail  us,  not  as  children  of  God  and  heirs  of 
immortality,  but  as  offspring  of  the  dust  and  vic- 

33 


386         HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR. 

tims  of  the  grave.  And  did  I  believe  myself  so, 
I  would  rr^ize  the  nearest  and  the  cheapest  pleas- 
ures. I  would  crown  myself  with  rosebuds  be- 
fore they  were  withered,  and  let  no  flower  of  the 
spring  pass  by  me.  I  would  never  face  opposi- 
tion, or  gird  myself  for  self-denying  duty.  The 
utmost  calculation  that  I  would  make  would  be 
as  to  the  greatest  amount  of  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion that  could  be  crowded  into  the  probable  pe- 
riod of  my  life  on  earth.  But  let  me  only  behold 
in  faith  my  risen  Saviour,  and  hear  from  him 
those  divine  words,  "  Because  I  live,  ye  shall 
live  also,"  then  I  can  cast  away  the  withering 
wreath  from  the  earthly  vine  for  the  amaranthine 
crown.  I  can  dash  from  me  the  cup  of  sensual 
gratification,  for  tlie  water  which  I  may  drink, 
and  thirst  no  more  for  ever.  I  can  tread  the 
rough  and  steep  path,  while  at  every  step  the  ce- 
lestial city  rises  clearer  and  brighter  to  my  view. 
I  can  throw  the  whole  energy  of  an  immortal  being 
into  the  defiant  mandate,  —  ''  Tempter,  depart ; 
get  thee  behind  me,  Satan." 

2.  But  we  no  less  need  this  anchor  when  we 
have  escaped  the  temptations  which  assail  the 
lower  nature,  and  find  ourselves  on  the  shoreless 
sea  of  duty.  Here  again  the  waves  lift  up  their 
voice.  How  vast  the  extent,  how  complex  the 
demands,  how  imperative  the  claims,  how  ear- 
nest the  calls,  of  spiritual  obligation !  How 
lial)le  wo  are,  even  with  a  quick  and  tender  con- 


HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR.  387 

science,  to  let  some  of  these  voices  drown  others, 

—  to  select  our  easy  or  our  favorite  departments 
of  duty,  instead  of  aiming  at  entire  fidelity, —  to 
let  "waywardness  modify  princii)le,  and  conven- 
ience limit  obligation  !  How  does  the  random, 
erratic  course  of  many  who  mean  to  do  right  and 
well,  resemble  that  of  a  ship  driven  by  the  wind 
and  tossed  on  the  billows  !  And  here  our  anchor 
comes  into  use,  to  keep  us  in  the  moorings  where 
God  has  placed  us.  It  is  earthly  breezes  —  hu- 
man opinion,  fear,  and  favor — that  sway  us  hith- 
er and  thither.  The  consciousness  of  our  im- 
mortality alone  can  make  us  firm  and  resolute, 
with  every  real  demand  of  duty  before  us  in  its 
relative  claims  and  just  proportions,  with  the 
work  given  us  to  do  present  to  the  inward  vision, 
and  with  the  whole  power  of  the  world  to  come 
making  its  strength  perfect  in  our  weakness. 

There  is,  in  this  view,  a  wonderful  impressive- 
ness  in  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  St. 
Paul's  First  Epistle  to  tlie  Corinthians.  The 
whole  theme  of  the  chapter  is  the  resurrection 
and  the  life  to  come.  The  corner-stone  of  the 
Apostle's  reasoning  is  the  great  stone  which  the 
angel  rolled  away  from  the  Saviour's  sepulchre, 

—  "If  Clirist  be  not  risen,  our  preaching  is  vain, 
and  your  faith  is  also  vain."  From  this,  he  as- 
cends step  by  step  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
still  distant  day  when  he,  who  conquered,  shall 
destroy  death,  and  "  all  things  shall  be  put  un- 


388  HOPE  THE  soul's  anchor. 

dcr  his  feet."  He  rebuts  by  unanswerable  anal- 
ogies the  scepticism  of  those  who  ask,  "  How 
are  the  dead  raised  up,  and  with  what  body  do 
they  come  ?  "  He  shows  us  the  corruptible  put- 
ting on  incorruption,  the  mortal  clothing  itself'  in 
immortality.  Then,  as  if  for  himself  the  change 
were  already  passed,  and  heaven  won,  he  breaks 
forth  into  the  shout  of  eternal  triumph,  — '' 0 
death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  0  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory  ?  "  And  now  comes  the  climax 
in  the  calm,  deliberate  exhortation,  —  "Where- 
fore, my  beloved  brethren,  be  ye  steadfast^  nrb- 
movahle^  always  abounding  in  the  work  of  the 
Lord,  forasmuch  as  ye  know  that  your  labor  is 
iiot  in  vain  in  the  Lord."  Thus  does  the  great 
Apostle  forge,  as  it  were  among  the  lightnings 
that  play  before  the  sapphire  throne,  the  anchor 
to  be  dropped  down  into  the  sea  of  conflicting 
interests,  opinions,  and  passions,  to  hold  the  in- 
dividual soul  to  its  divinely  appointed  roadstead 
of  duty. 

3.  We  need  our  anchor  among  the  trials  and 
sorrows  which  are  the  lot  of  all.  However  calm- 
ly the  sea  of  life  may  roll  for  a  while,  there  arc 
times  when  the  waves  and  the  billows  go  over  us, 
and  i\\Q  floods  lift  up  their  voices  around  us, — 
times  when,  if  in  this  life  only  we  have  hope,  we 
arc  ready  to  pronounce  ourselves  of  all  men  the 
most  miserable.  When  the  gains  of  a  lifetime 
are  swept  away  in  an  hour,  and  a  prime  spent  in 


HOPE  THE  soul's  ANCHOR.         389 

affliicnco  sinks  into  a  needy  old  age ;  when,  ago- 
nized by  violent  disease,  we  pass  at  once  from  vig- 
orous health  into  the  very  jaws  of  death,  or,  cri})- 
plcd  by  chronic  infirmity,  we  drag  our  liml)s  after 
us  as  a  prisoner  his  chain  ;  wlien  the  liglit  of  our 
eyes  is  quenched,  and  the  voices  that  made  sweet 
melody  in  our  hearts  are  silent  in  the  grave  ; 
when,  as  with  not  a  few  among  us,  our  dead  out- 
number our  living,  and  the  monuments  in  the 
cemetery  are  more  than  the  olive-plants  around 
our  table,  —  we  then  have  encountered  griefs  be- 
yond the  reach  of  human  comforters.  They  set 
adrift  the  soul  that  has  no  hold  on  heaven.  They 
abandon  it  to  empty  regrets,  fruitless  complain- 
ings, —  often  to  a  despondency  which  can  find 
relief  only  in  the  self-forgetfulness  of  sensual  in- 
dulgence. '  They  are,  in  an  earthly  point  of  view, 
intense  and  unmitigated  evils.  Yet,  with  the  an-  <- 
chor  of  an  immortal  hope,  how  serenely  may  the 
Christian  outride  these  storms,  and  at  the  very 
acme  of  their  violence  hear  the  voice  which  ever 
says  to  the  Avinds  and  to  the  waves,  "■  Peace !  bo 
still !  "  How  does  the  great  thought,  the  swell- 
ing, bounding  hope  of  immortality  belittle  earth- 
ly trials,  so  that,  when  it  fills  our  souls,  we  can 
borrow  the  Apostle's  words,  and  pronounce  our 
sorrows  "  light "  and  "  but  for  a  moment,"  and 
"  not  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  glory 
that  shall  be  revealed  "  !  For  what  is  loss,  wliat 
is  penury,  if  the  soul  have  its  wealth,  boundless, 

S3* 


390  HOPE    THE    soul's    ANCHOR. 

infinite,  eternal  ?  What  is  bodily  pain  or  infirm- 
ity, if  there  be  within  the  health  and  soundness 
which  the  Divine  Physician  guarantees  as  the 
pledge  of  everlasting  life  ?  And  what  are  these 
partings  on  the  brief  voyage  ?  —  severe  indeed,  I 
know  from  repeated  experience,  yet  not  for  a  sin- 
gle moment  hopeless  or  despairing,  when  we  can 
yield  up  the  dying  to  the  covenant  love  of  our 
risen  Redeemer,  and  feel  assured  that  we  shall 
meet  them  again  in  the  ranks  of  the  ransomed, 
and  renew  the  worship  of  the  home  altar  in  the 
redemption  song  of  the  Father's  house  on  high. 
0  how  blessed  the  anchor,  ''  which  entereth  into 
that  within  the  veil,  whither,"  adds  our  context, 
"  the  Forerunner  is  for  us  entered,  even  Jesus," 
—  whither  so  many  of  the  beloved  have  passed 
on  before  us,  and  await  our  coming ! 

"  There,  in  the  soft  and  beautiful  belief 
Flows  the  true  Lethe  for  the  lips  of  Grief; 
There  Penury,  Hunger,  Misery,  cast  their  eyes. 
How  soon  the  bright  republic  of  the  skies  ! 
There  Love,  heart-broken,  sees  prepared  the  bower, 
And  hears  the  bridal  step,  and  waits  the  nuptial  hour ! 
There  smiles  the  mother  we  have  wept !     There  bloom 
Again  the  buds  asleep  within  the  tomb. 
There,  o'er  bright  gates  inscribed,  No  more  to  part, 
Soul  springs  to  soul,  and  heart  unites  to  heart !  " 


SERMON    XXX 


THE     CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES. 

WHEREFORE,  SEEING  WE  ALSO  ARE  COMPASSED  ABOUT  WITH 
SO  GREAT  A  CLOUD  OF  WITNESSES,  LET  US  LAY  ASIDE  EVERY 
WEIGHT,  AND  THE  SIN  WHICH  DOTH  SO  EASILY  BESET  US, 
AND    LET    US    RUN    WITH    PATIENCE    THE    RACE    THAT    IS    SET 

BEFORE  US.  —  Hebrews  xii.  1. 

The  author  of  this  Epistle  had  in  his  mind  the 
games,  or  contests  of  speed  and  strength,  which 
were  the  most  august  occasions,  and  convened 
the  most  illustrious  and  brilliant  assemblies,  in 
all  classic  antiquity.  The  athlete  who  ran  on  the 
Olympic  course  had  been  for  months  training  him- 
self for  the  trial,  —  had  abstained  not  only  from 
guilty,  but  from  innocent  indulgence,  —  had 
sought  by  the  most  rigid  regimen  and  the  most 
vigorous  exercise  to  lay  aside  every  weight,  that 
is,  all  superfluous  heaviness  of  the  flesh,  and  to 
reduce  himself  to  that  precise  degree  of  thinness 
which  combines  strength  with  activity,  liglitness 
and  elasticity  of  limb  with  full  muscular  develoi> 
ment  and  tension.     And  the  day  of  his  race  was 


392  THE    CLOUD    OV  AVITNESSES. 

the  most  eventful  day  of  his  life.  He  ran  in  an 
area,  around  which  stood  all  the  great  men  of 
Greece  and  her  colonies,  and  not  nnfrequently 
crowned  and  laurelled  heads  from  foreign  and 
distant  lands.  There  Avere  poets  ready  to  em- 
balm the  victor's  name  in  immortal  verse.  There 
Averc  artists  Avho  would  transmit  his  form  and 
features  to  far-off  generations.  It  Avas  indeed  the 
highest  honor  that  the  Avorld  had  to  bestoAV  ;  and 
those  AAdio  had  Avon  the  first  place  in  empire  or 
in  arms  deemed  the  summit  of  glory  imattained 
Avhile  the  Olympic  Avreath  Avas  Avanting. 

It  is  unfortunate  that  our  text,  in  the  arbitrary 
arrangement  wliich  you  knoAV  is  a  device  of  mod- 
ern times,  stands  at  the  beginning  of  a  chapter. 
It  belongs  to  the  preceding  chapter  In  that  the 
Avritcr  gives  a  long  list,  from  Abel  downward,  of 
those  whose  faith  had  made  tliem  dear  to  God, 
and  Avon  for  them  an  inheritance  among  the  just 
made  perfect  At  first  he  goes  into  detail,  and 
describes  the  peculiar  forms  of  trial  and  modes  of 
fidelity  of  those  A\^hom  he  commemorates.  Then, 
as  one  after  another  croAvds  upon  his  memory,  he 
giA^es  simply  the  names  of  Gideon,  Barak,  Sam- 
son, Jej^hthah,  David,  and  Samuel.  Then,  as  the 
A^cry  names  oppress  him  Avitli  their  multitude,  he 
suspends  the  catalogue,  and  enumerates  the  \'ari- 
ous  sufferings  and  conflicts  in  Avhich  a  number 
beyond  thought  of  devout  men  and  lioly  Avomen 
had  obtained  a  good  report  througli  faith,  and  re- 


THE    CLOUD    OF  WITNESSES.  003 

ccivcd  the  promises.  And  now  lie  sees  the  world 
transformed  into  a  race-ground.  Christians  are 
running  for  the  prize.  These  illustrious  dead, 
each  decked  with  the  crown  of  victory,  are  the 
dense  cloud  of  witnesses,  watching  the  conflict 
with  intense  interest,  urging  the  laggards,  cheer- 
ing on  those  who  are  rai)idly  neari ng  the  goal, 
shouting  their  plaudit  whenever  the  goal  is 
reached  and  the  laurel  wreath  is  twined  around 
the  victor's  brow.  "  Seeing,  then,"  says  our 
writer,  "  that  we  are  on  the  race  of  life,  with  the 
amaranthine  crown  for  our  prize,  and  encircled 
by  all  who  in  every  age  have  won  the  victory, 
have  reached  the  summit  of  spiritual  glory,  liave 
their  name  written  on  records  more  durable  than 
brass  or  adamant,  let  us  lay  aside  every  weight, 
every  desire,  love,  propensity,  or  habit  that  can 
make  us  loiter  on  the  race-course,  especially  our 
constitutional  or  besetting  faults,  —  those  sins  to 
Avhich  we  are  the  most  inclined,  and  for  which 
Ave  find  the  readiest  apology;  and  thus  unencum- 
bered, in  full  strength,  Avith  CA'cry  poAA^r  and  af- 
fection concentrated  on  the  goal  and  the  prize, 
let  us  run  Avith  perscA'crance  the  race  that  is  set 
before  us." 

This  idea  of  the  presence  of  the  departed,  and 
their  surA'iA'ing  interest  in  the  scenes  among 
Avhich  their  trophies  Avere  Avon,  is  a  familiar  one 
Avith  the  sacred  Avriters,  though  noAvhcre  else  ex- 
hibited Avitli  the  scenic  effect  Avith  Avhich  it  is  hero 


394  THE    CLOUD    OF  WITNESSES. 

placed  before  the  imagination.  AVhat  a  glorious 
and  inspiring  thought,  that  we  are  acting  our 
parts,  fulfilling  our  mission,  beneath  the  loving 
and  solicitous  regards  — when  faithful,  under  the 
approving  eye  —  of  patriarchs,  prophets,  and  apos- 
tles, —  of  Abel,  the  first  mortal  who  put  on 
immortality,  —  of  Abraham,  the  father  of  the 
faithful,  —  of  Moses,  the  mediator  of  that  early 
covenant  which  embosomed  the  promise  of  the 
Messiah  and  the  spiritual  destiny  of  all  his  fol- 
lowers, —  of  the  intrepid  Peter,  the  fervent  Paul, 
the  loving  John,  —  of  the  noble  army  of  martyrs, 
—  of  the  great  and  good,  as  their  ranks  have 
been  midtiplied  all  down  through  the  Christian 
ages  !  Xor  can  we  confine  our  thoughts  to  these. 
With  tliem  we  associate  those  whom  we  have 
known  and  loved,  —  our  home-born  saints,  those 
who  have  taken  sweet  counsel  and  lived  in  holy 
fellowship  with  vis,  the  tutelar  spirits  of  our 
households,  —  the  parents  whose  prayers  conse- 
crated our  infancy,  and  whose  ripened  virtue 
strengthened  us  on  our  opening  way,  —  the  chil- 
dren translated  in  their  innocence  from  our  em- 
brace to  tlie  Good  Shepherd's  arms,  —  the  com- 
panions of  our  youth  cut  off  in  the  bloom  of  their 
beautiful  promise.  These  are  tlie  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses that  encompass  us  ;  and,  could  they  be  but 
for  one  moment  made  visible  to  the  outward  eye, 
how  would  they 

"reprove  each  dull  dclaj, 
Allure  to  brighter  worlds,  and  lead  the  way  "  I 


Tin-:    CLOUD    OF    WITNPZSSKS.  395 

Nor  is  this  view  attended  by  any  intrinsic  im- 
probability, which  makes  it  hard  for  our  faitli. 
Wo  are  the  unrecognized  witnesses  of  the  liabits 
and  movements  of  the  lower  orders  of  animated 
existence.  Why  may  not  tlic  translated  spirits 
that  have  preceded  us  to  heaven  be  in  like  man- 
ner the  unseen  witnesses  of  our  conflicts,  failures, 
and  successes  ?  Science  brings  to  view  numl)er- 
loss  tribes  of  sentient  beings  too  minute  for  our 
unaided  sight.  Why  may  not  religion  equally 
reveal  to  us  forms  and  modes  of  life  too  ethereal 
for  our  bodily  vision  to  discern  ?  Almost  every 
spot  of  earth  has  its  double  occupancy ;  every 
green  leaf,  every  drop  of  water,  has  its  myriads  of 
living  tenants  ;  the  realm  of  inanimate  and  that 
of  sentient  existence  interpenetrate  each  other, 
mingle  without  confusion,  occupy  the  same  space, 
yet  appertain  to  separate  systems.  Why  may  not 
the  realms  of  matter  and  of  spirit  similarly  inter- 
penetrate each  other,  and  blend  throughout  witli- 
out  collision  or  disturbance  ?  The  stirring  of  the 
summer  air,  so  gentle  as  to  elude  our  senses, 
wakes  melody  in  the  ^olian  harp.  Why  may 
not  converse  and  communion,  too  subtile  for  de- 
tection by  the  dull  organs  of  the  perishing  body, 
transpire  near  and  around  us  among  glorified 
spirits  ?  And  if,  through  faith  in  things  unseen, 
through  a  yearning  after  tlie  fellowship  of  the 
holy  dead,  we  clarify  the  inward  sense,  and  at- 
tune aright  the  chords  of  the  spiritual  nature,  why 


396  THE    CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES. 

may  not  wc  become  Avind-harps,  to  vibrate  strains 
of  celestial  harmony,  and  to  echo  loftier  praise 
than  can  float  on  the  broken  song  of  our  vocal 
"worship  ? 

Nor  need  any  questionings  about  a  local  heaven 
disturb  our  faith  in  the  presence  of  these  witness- 
es. The  laws  of  spiritual  existence,  knowledge, 
presence,  and  intercourse,  whether  in  the  body  or 
out  of  it,  transcend  our  philosophy.  There  may 
be  a  local  heaven,  and  yet  it  may  be  heaven  here 
and  everywhere  ;  as  in  our  material  firmament  it 
is  heaven  where  the  sun  walks  in  glory  and  the 
stars  keep  their  watches,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
heaven  at  our  fingers'  ends.  Must  not  the  very 
process  of  disembodiment  bring  the  pure  spirit 
into  the  intimate  presence  of  God,  —  reveal  to  it 
its  due  place  in  the  ranks  of  the  redeemed,  — 
suffuse  its  whole  being  with  the  welcome  of  the 
Saviour  and  the  benediction  of  the  Father  ?  And 
if  this  be  so,  it  must  be  heaven  wherever  the 
spirit  can  remain  in  communion  with  God  and 
Christ,  and  in  full  consciousness  of  its  immortal 
heritage.  Especially  must  it  be  heaven  where 
the  affections  love  to  linger,  among  the  scenes  of 
past  conflict  and  triumph,  among  the  friends  yet 
militant,  but  pressing  on  for  the  prize  of  their 
high  calling.  By  the  form  from  which  life  has 
fled,  when  survivors  have  clustered  around  the 
bed  of  death  with  calm  resignation  and  unwaver- 
ing trust ;  when  on  the  waters  that  threatened  to 


THE    CLOUD    OK    WITNKSSKS.  307 

go  over  their  souls  they  liavc  found  fast  luooriiiij^s 
by  the  llock  of  Ages  ;  wlicu  tlie  voice  of  j)niise  has 
gone  up  for  the  translation  of  the  departed  saint ; 
when  the  Saviour's  words  of  peace  have  been 
breatlied  into  every  heart,  and  his  loving  pres- 
ence is  as  consciously  felt  as  it  was  beheld  hy  the 
sisters  at  the  tomb  of  Bethany,  —  it  lias  seemed 
to  me  as  if  the  dying  soul  need  not  leave  the 
chamber  for  heaven,  but  miglit  receive  the  liglit 
of  life  eternal  in  that  very  room,  might  remain  in 
the  bosom  of  the  stricken  household,  and  yet  be 
bathed  in  the  gladness  and  glory  of  the  house 
not  made  with  hands ;  and  that  to  the  vision 
purged  and  clarified  by  death  every  tear  of  be- 
reaved affection  might  seem  a  morning  dew-drop 
of  renewed  spiritual  life,  every  sigh  an  aspiration 
heavenward,  every  sad  thought  a  harbinger  of 
God's  own  thoughts  of  peace.  And  when  those 
survivors,  instead  of  sinking  under  sorrow  into 
supineness  and  selfishness,  have  heard  in  the 
d oath-summons  for  one  of  their  number  tlie  call 
to  a  more  earnest  and  devoted  life ;  when  they 
have  gone  forth  with  a  chastened,  yet  hoi)eful 
spirit  to  meet  the  demands  of  daily  duty  ;  when 
tlieir  prayers  have  flowed  with  a  freedom  and 
fervor  unknown  before  ;  when  their  social  sym- 
pathies have  been  touched  to  finer  issues ;  when 
a  richer  beauty  of  holiness  has  attested  that  tlie 
earthly  vine  had  not  been  pruned  in  vain,  —  I 
cannot  conceive  that  heaven  should  have  a  purer 

34 


•  ] 


398  THE    CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES. 

joy  for  the  departed,  than  he  might  find  in  watch- 
ing the  spiritual  growth,  the  successive  attain- 
ments and  victories,  of  those  who  were  dearest  to 
his  heart.  When  I  witness  such  fruits  of  sorrow, 
I  always  think  of  the  spirit  recently  removed  as 
removed  only  from  outward  sight,  —  as  the  happy 
witness  of  the  path  on  which,  one  by  one,  those 
for  whom  the  earthly  household  has  been  dis- 
solved are  to  attain  the  end  of  their  faith,  the 
salvation  of  their  souls. 

Nowhere,  it  seems  to  me,  may  we  more  ap- 
propriately welcome  these  thoughts,  than  at  the 
altar,  when  the  memorials  of  him  who  is  the 
Lord  of  the  dead  and  the  living,  of  him  in  whom 
the  whole  family  in  heaven  and  on  earth  is  one, 
are  spread  before  us.  If  there  is  a  spot  on  earth 
peculiarly  dear  to  those  who  have  gone  from  us, 
it  is  this  where  they  pledged  their  early  vows, 
consecrated  their  riper  years,  felt  the  presence 
and  power  of  the  Redeemer,  and  rejoiced  in  the 
fellowsliip  of  tliose  who  were  as  tendrils  of  the 
same  branch  of  the  Heavenly  Vine.  How  many 
are  the  revered  and  tenderly  beloved  forms  that 
come  up  in  our  remembrance,  when  we  sing 
around  the  holy  table  our  favorite  hymn,  — 

"  The  saints  on  earth  and  those  above 
But  one  communion  make  "  ! 

Tliere  is  the  pastor,  whose  eloquent  eye,  whose 
fervent  cxliortations  and  prayers,  whose  saintly 
and  loving  walk,  are  as  fresh  in  the  memoiy  of 


THE    CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES.  399 

many  of  us,  as  on  that  sad  day  when  his  l)ody  re- 
posed before  this  altar  on  its  way  to  the  grave. 
AVith  his  image  tliere  comes  up  Ijefore  iis  the 
numerous  array  of  those  wlio  wrought  witli  liiiu 
in  every  cause  of  Christ  and  man;  —  those  wlio 
brought  to  the  service  the  best  fruits  of  gen  ins 
and  of  liberal  culture ;  those  whose  wisdom,  ma- 
tnred  among  the  busy  scenes  of  life,  was  conse- 
crated in  the  patience  of  faith  to  the  labor  of 
love ;  those  formed  for  the  more  tender,  gentle 
ministries  of  Christian  benevolence ;  the  bowed 
in  age  whose  dying  prayers  were  for  our  peace 
and  prosperity ;  the  fathers  and  mothers  in  our 
Israel ;  the  young  translated  from  their  brief  al- 
tar-service to  the  worship  of  the  upper  sanctuary. 
IIow  fast  thickens  for  us  the  cloud  of  witnesses ! 
Since  our  last  communion,  we  have  performed 
the  parting  rites  of  religion  for  no  less  than  three 
of  our  circle ;  —  the  veteran  disciple,  whose  ripened 
sheaves  were  bound,  and  who  was  calmly  await- 
ing the  summons  to  bear  them  home ;  the  ear- 
nest, whole-souled  laborer  in  the  vineyard,  called 
to  go  up  higher  when  every  heart  that  could 
breathe  a  prayer  would  have  interceded  for  his 
longer  stay ;  the  venerable  matron,  with  mental 
vigor  luiimpaired,  and  faith  clear  as  sight,  re- 
moved from  the  home  which  she  could  not  have 
made  happier  than  it  was  under  the  serene  sun- 
set of  her  day,  to  the  larger  circle  of  the  beloved 
that  have  bid  her  welcome  to  the  Father's  house 
in  heaven. 


400  THE    CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES. 

What  should  be  for  iis  the  voice  of  tlicsc  be- 
reavements ?  Wc  think  of  tliem  with  sadness, 
nor  can  it  be  otherwise.  God  means  that  by 
such  removals  our  spirits  should  be  more  and 
more  unearthed,  —  that  our  affections  should  not 
be  withdrawn  from  those  that  go,  but  should  fol- 
low them,  and  through  our  love  for  them  should 
take  a  stronger  hold  on  the  home  where  we  may 
rejoin  them.  But  are  they  our  witnesses,  more 
closely  present  than  when  they  walked  witli  us 
here,  more  familiarly  conversant  with  our  char- 
acters, more  solicitous  for  our  spiritual  well-being  ? 
Have  they  at  once  an  enlarged  comprehension  of 
all  that  we  ought  to  be,  and  a  clearer  view  of 
what  we  are  ?  And  do  we  love  them  still  ?  Then 
may  they  —  then  should  they  —  form  a  golden 
chain  to  bind  our  affections,  desires,  and  hopes  to 
the  throne  of  God  and  the  fellowship  of  his  ran- 
somed. We  would  not  pain  them  while  they 
were  with  us  here ;  sliall  we  not  much  more 
court  tlieir  approval,  now  that  they  are  even  more 
intimately  with  us  ?  We  cherished  their  com- 
munion ;  shall  it  not  be  even  dearer  to  us,  now 
that  it  may  assume  the  form  of  heavenly  bene- 
diction from  guardian  angels  ?  We  loved  to 
walk  with  them  in  mutual  counsel  and  helpful- 
ness ;  shall  we  part  from  their  company,  now  that 
we  cannot  take  a  step  with  them  wliich  urges  us 
not  Christward  and  Godward  ?  They  indeed 
have  replaced  the  intermittent  strength  of  their 


THE    CLOUD    OF    WITNESSES.  401 

cartlily  state  by  immortal  A'igor,  —  tlioy  mount 
Tip  oil  wings  as  eagles,  they  run  and  arc  not 
weary,  tliey  walk  and  faint  not;  and  lame  may 
1)0  our  progress  compared  with  theirs.  But  as 
none  sympathize  so  cordially  witli  the  beginnings 
of  tlic  religious  life,  —  with  tlie  feeblest  sincere 
efforts  and  aspirations  for  spiritual  excellence,  — 
as  those  of  the  most  advanced  experience  and 
mature  piety,  1  cannot  but  feel  that  tlie  I)ond  of 
our  fellowship  with  our  friends  in  heaven  is  in  no 
Avise  weakened  by  their  and  our  different  rates 
of  progress,  if  we  are  only  true  to  our  means  of 
inward  growth,  faithful  to  the  utmost  measure 
of  our  ability,  —  if  we  do  God's  will  on  earth  in 
the  same  loving  spirit  in  which  they  do  it  in  heav- 
en. Only  let  me  thus  live,  and  I  cannot  feel  that 
there  is  any  separating  gulf  between  the  two 
worlds,  or  that,  when  we  are  all  in  one  world, 
those  who  went  before  me  will  be  too  far  advanced 
to  welcome  and  enjoy  my  society  as  cordially  as 
I  would  theirs.  Tlie  earlier  dead  will  indeed  be 
to  us  as  elder  brethren,  yet  brethren  still ;  and 
none  tlic  less  so  because  they  can  be,  not  only 
our  companions,  but  our  guides,  —  not  only  our 
fcUow-worshippcrs,  but  our  teachers  in  the  re- 
dom])tioii-soiig,  —  not  only  our  co-workers,  but 
our  forerunners  in  every  shining  path  of  the  Di- 
vine service. 


34* 


SERMON    XXXI 


AUTUMN. 

WE    ALL   DO    FADE    AS    A    LEAF.  —  Isaiah  Ixiv.  6. 

The  outward  world  is  full  of  the  types  of  spir- 
itual things.  Like  the  roll  in  Ezekiel's  vision,  it 
is  written  Avithin  and  without,  though  often  in  a 
cipher  to  whicli  Christ  alone  can  furnish  the  right 
key.  Especially  do  the  alternations  and  transfers 
of  life  in  the  creation  around  us  corresi3ond  to 
those  in  the  human  family,  so  that  every  year 
seems  an  epitome  of  man's  life,  death,  and  resur- 
rection. What  more  obvious  symbol  of  man's 
transitory  condition  can  there  be,  tlian  tlie  fading 
leaves  of  autumn  ?  And  it  is  a  symbol  wliich 
bears  a  closer  and  more  varied  application  than 
might  appear  at  first  thought,  —  one  Avhich  we 
may  begin  to  contemplate  in  sadness,  and  pass  on 
to  joy  and  gratitude  ;  for  the  fading  leaves  have 
not  only  their  lessons  of  frailty  and  mortality, 
but  their  suggestions  of  a  hidden  life  to  be  pre- 


AUTUMN.  403 

served  through  death,  and  to  l)c  restored  in  vigor 
and  beauty. 

"  We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf."  Hardly  has  tlio 
prime  of  summer  passed,  when  here  and  there  a 
dry  and  wilted  leaf  begins  to  wake  autunmal 
musings,  and  to  remind  us  that  in  the  midst  of 
life  we  are  in  death ;  while  on  the  very  verge  of 
winter  there  hangs  in  sheltered  nooks  leafage 
still  unblighted,  —  the  type  of  those  rare  excep- 
tions to  the  common  lot  of  humanity,  the  few  Avho 
remain  unchanged  while  all  is  changed  around 
them,  whose  leaf  withers  not,  and  whatsoever 
they  do  prospers.  The  varied  hues  of  our  au- 
tumnal foliage  bring  to  our  thought  different 
classes  of  the  death-doomed; — the  deep  scarlet, 
those  who  smile  when  all  around  them  weep,  and 
dream  sweetly  of  life  while  they  are  sinking  into 
the  death-slumber ;  the  pale  orange,  those  who 
seem  born  but  to  die,  and  wither  in  their  earliest 
bloom ;  the  russet-brown,  those  who  go  down 
to  the  grave  in  ripened  age  like  a  shock  of  corn 
in  its  season.  And  when  the  work  of  desolation 
is  completed,  —  when 

"  these  trees, 
Each,  like  a  flcshlcss  skeleton,  shall  stretch 
Its  bare  brown  bouglis ;  when  not  a  flower  shall  spread 
Its  colors  to  the  day,  and  not  a  bird 
Carol  its  joyance,  but  all  nature  wears 
One  sullen  aspect,  bleak  and  desolate. 
To  eye,  car,  feeling,  comfortless  alike,"  — 

have  we  not  in  this  sable  close  of  autumn  an  apt 


404  AUTUMN. 

type  of  the  wintry  grave,  where  the  rich  and  the 
poor  lie  down  together,  and  tlie  storms  of  earth 
beat  unheeded  over  their  silent  dust?  0,  let 
not  nature  wither  and  sink  into  the  tomb,  with- 
out reminding  us  that  for  man  too  the  grave- 
clothes  are  ready  and  the  sepulchre  is  open, — 
that  all 

"  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  tlie  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man. 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  side  by  side  " 

But  let  us  not  forget  that  this  season  of  deso- 
lation is  the  very  reign  of  beauty.  All  gorgeous 
hues  blend  and  alternate.  There  was  sameness 
in  the  summer's  green.  It  was  charming ;  yet 
the  eye  could  promptly  receive  and  easily  re- 
tain the  impress  of  the  scene.  But  now,  every 
turn  of  the  street,  every  angle  of  the  forest  path- 
way, each  individual  tree,  presents  its  separate 
panorama  of  colors  variously  grouped  and  shad- 
ed, interpenetrating  one  another  at  every  open- 
ing, and,  as  they  glance  in  the  sunlight  or  wave 
in  the  cool  breeze,  giving  us  a  kaleidoscope  with 
ever  new  combinations  from  moment  to  moment. 
Thus  does  splendor  immeasurably  beyond  that 
of  its  spring  and  its  prime  cover  the  retreat  of 
vcgctaljle  life,  and  spread  its  multifaced  smile 
over  the  dying  year. 

Thus  it  it,  too,  with  seasons  of  decline   and 


AUTUMN.  405 

death  among  men.  If  auglit  that  is  Iniman  awa- 
kens admiration  among  the  lieavenly  witnesses^ 
it  is  not  in  the  buoyancy  and  ghadncss  of  open- 
ing life,  nor  yet  in  the  heat  and  turmoil  of  its 
busy  and  care-cumbered  prime.  The  very  vir- 
tues of  the  true  and  upright  arc  liable  to  jiresent 
a  soiled  and  doubtful  aspect,  on  account  of  tlie 
dust  and  strife  of  the  crowded  arena,  the  conflict- 
ing opinions,  passions,  and  prejudices  of  its  actors, 
the  hiddenncss  of  motives,  and  the  prevailing  ten- 
dency to  misrepresent  or  depreciate  whatever  de- 
parts from  the  average  standard,  even  though  the 
departure  be  Christward  and  heavenward.  Then, 
even  in  the  best  men,  prior  to  severe  vicissitudes, 
there  is  a  tinge  of  earthiness.  They  look  to 
heaven  with  eyes  dazzled  by  the  glare  and  glit- 
ter of  this  transitory  life.  They  find  it  hard  to 
retain  the  singleness  of  vision  and  purpose  for 
which  they  aim.  There  are,  also,  depths  of  spir- 
itual experience,  which  arc  not  opened  while 
hope  is  undimmed  and  prosperity  unimpaired. 
There  is  an  intimacy  of  converse  with  God,  a 
fellow-feeling  with  the  suffering,  glorified  Re- 
deemer, a  home-longing  for  the  house  not  made 
with  hands,  which  cannot  be  fully  reached  in 
the  bloom  and  flush  of  happy  youth  or  busy 
manhood.  There  are,  too,  human  sympathies, 
tender  and  beautiful,  which  do  not  begin  to  flow, 
till  disappointment,  blighting,  or  decay  has  passed 
over  some  portion  of  the  earthly  heritage.     In 


406  AUTUMN. 

our  bright  and  active  days,  the  heavenly  wit- 
nesses  may  indeed  he  —  we  trust  they  are  —  our 
ministering  angels,  yet  with  a  remoter  sense  of 
kindred.  It  is  under  the  approaches  of  tlie  au- 
tumnal chill  and  frost,  that  they  begin  to  discern 
a  life  more  entirely  resembling  their  own.  It  is 
then  that  Faith  puts  on  her  beautiful  apparel ; 
Hope,  her  queenly  robes  ;  Love,  her  wedding  gar- 
ment, as  the  heavenly  Bridegroom's  steps  draw 
near.  The  richest  manifestations  of  character ; 
the  communings  that  can  never  be  forgotten; 
the  heroic  forms  of  devotion  and  submission ; 
the  outgoings  of  affection  too  intense  for  utter- 
ance, overflowing  from  the  faltering  tongue  on 
eye  and  lip  and  brow,  —  these  belong  to  the  cham- 
ber of  illness  and  the  bed  of  death. 

Often  is  there  during  the  active  season  of  life 
sincere  faith  and  profound  religious  feeling,  while 
an  insurmountable  diffidence  or  unreadiness  seals 
the  lips  and  ties  the  tongue,  so  that  the  loving 
and  devout  thoughts,  which  are  all  ready  to  leap 
forth  in  burning  words,  are  locked  up  in  the  dis- 
ciple's heart.  But  in  such  cases,  approaching 
death  opens  the  floodgates ;  the  lips  grow  sud- 
denly eloquent ;  the  treasures  of  a  rich  life-ex- 
perience are  poured  out  for  the  instruction  and 
comfort  of  surrounding  friends ;  and  we  are  ready 
to  deem  the  death-chamber  a  Bethel,  —  the  house 
of  God  and  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Still  oftener  may  we  witness  the  gradual  trans- 


AUTUMN.  407 

forming  and  spiritualizing  of  character  under  tlio 
process  of  decay  and  the  slow  approaches  of  disso- 
lution. Here  is  a  man,  with  serious  dispositions 
and  purposes,  hut  without  a  distinctly  marked 
religious  character.  The  world  goes  prosper- 
ously with  him,  and  ho  loves  it  more  than  is  con- 
sistent with  supreme  love  to  the  Father.  His 
life  is  more  outward  than  inward.  He  has  held 
infrequent  and  sliglit  communion  with  his  own 
soul.  Not  wholly  undevout,  he  yet  has  known 
little  of  tlie  joy  of  fervent  and  prolonged  converse 
with  the  Author  of  his  hcing.  But  now  comes 
the  early  frost.  His  leaf  begins  to  wither,  and 
he  knows  that  it  can  never  be  green  again.  Un- 
der this  consciousness,  his  thoughts  are  gradually 
drawn  in  upon  himself;  they  go  forth  to  the  pros- 
pect of  a  higher  life,  which  is  all  that  remains  for 
his  hope ;  they  seek  after  God,  if  haply  they  may 
find  him ;  they  cluster  around  the  Redeemer,  as 
the  Author  of  pardon  and  the  Herald  of  immor- 
tality ;  they  are  detached  from  passing  and  per- 
ishing objects,  and  fixed  on  those  that  are  unseen 
and  eternal.  And  now  submission  makes  his 
sufferings  beautiful.  Patience  has  her  perfect 
Avork.  Serenity  and  cheerfulness  present  an  un- 
ruffled front  to  the  approaches  of  disease.  In 
his  uncomplaining  endurance,  his  gratitude  for 
sympathy  and  kindness,  his  calm  reliance  on  the 
Heavenly  Shepherd  as  he  passes  through  the  val- 
ley of  the  death-shadow,  friends  find  their  post 


408  AUTUMN. 

of  service  near  liim  a  place  of  privilege,  and  feel 
that  the  darkest  scenes  through  which  they  pass 
with  him  are  irradiated  by  the  clear  outshin- 
ing of  omnipotent  love.  Every  trait  of  his  char- 
acter that  had  previously  won  their  regard  is 
touched  to  its  finest  issues.  Sincerity  was  never 
before  so  transparent,  nor  kindness  so  genial,  nor 
affection  so  tender.  Winning  graces,  which  till 
now  had  hardly  revealed  themselves,  grow  with 
every  stage  of  decline,  and  brighten  with  every 
day's  march  to  the  grave.  The  spirit  seems  un- 
clothed of  all  that  is  not  heavenly,  and  tints  of 
celestial  beauty  replace  the  earth-hues  that  had 
clung  to  it  in  the  walks  of  busy  life. 

Nor  is  it  only  such  as  I  have  described  that 
feel  these  blessed  influences.  The  softening,  el- 
evating ministry  of  decline  and  decay  imparts 
new  richness  even  to  the  loftiest  types  of  virtue 
and  devotion.  Eigidness  and  austerity  then  be- 
come gentle.  Exclusive  sympathies  grow  cath- 
olic. Sectarianism  expands  into  a  genial  senti- 
ment of  brotherhood.  Stern  legality  yields  place 
to  that  perfect  love  which  is  the  fulfilling  of  the 
law.  Tlie  entire  energy  of  faith  and  principle, 
which  had  sufficed  for  strong  temptations  and 
large  responsibilities,  is  now  all  converged  on  the 
intercourse,  trials,  privations,  and  infirmities  of  a 
wasting  frame  and  an  ebbing  life.  And  as  duties 
of  a  new  class  arise,  —  as  it  is  the  disciple's  mis- 
sion no  longer  actively  to  do,  but  meekly  to  bear, 


AUTUMN.  40Sf 

God's  will,  —  the  passive  virtues,  which  may  have 
been  but  fjcbly  developed  for  lack  of  exercise, 
are  calbd  iuto  prominent  relief,  and  brini^  the 
character  iuto  a  closer  kindred  than  ever  before 
with  tlij  Saviour  who  was  made  perfect  tlu'ougli 
sufferings.  There  is  choice  fruit,  whicli  is  hard 
and  acrid  all  summer  long,  but  whicli,  wlien  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  autumnal  sun  make  their  way 
to  it  through  the  thinned  leafage,  grows  mellow 
and  luscious.  In  like  manner,  there  are  charac- 
ters of  rare  excellence,  whicli  present  a  rough  ex- 
terior, till  they  are  laid  open  to  the  moUowing  in- 
fluences of  infirmity  and  decline.  So,  too,  there 
are  traits  of  spiritual  loveliness  and  beauty,  which 
are  hiddon  from  the  only  influences  under  which 
they  could  grow  by  the  interests,  cares,  and  pleas- 
ures of  the  more  active  years,  —  shrouded  by  the 
summer  foliage  of  the  life-tree,  —  and  can  ripen 
only  when  the  last  of  earth  and  the  dawn  of 
heaven  are  near. 

I  would  call  your  attention  to  yet  another  an- 
alogy. Under  what  gorgeous  celestial  scenery 
does  the  leaf  wither  and  fall !  How  rich  in  pic- 
turesque beauty  is  the  autumnal  sky  !  How  soft, 
yet  how  radiant,  its  cvery-day  robe  of  dewy  azure ! 
Its  sunset  drapery  how  resplendent !  The  sun 
sinks  upon  a  couch  of  the  richest  purple,  fringed 
with  burnished  gold,  with  curtains  of  the  purest 
violet  and  the  brightest  orange.  The  western 
clouds  seem  lakes  of  liquid  amber ;  while,  above 

35 


410  AUTUMN. 

and  around,  the  hoavens  are  suffused,  and  the 
troo-tops  and  hill-sides  bathed  in  the  tranquil 
smile  of  departing  day.  Then,  too,  how  glorious 
those  nights,  when  the  harvest  moon  chases  every 
cloud  fr o.n  the  sky,  and  rides  conqueror  and 
queen  ;  and  when,  in  its  wane,  mystic  fires  shoot 
up  from  the  horizon,  dart  in  lambent  rays  from 
pole  to  pole,  span  the  firmament  with  their  ra- 
diant bow,  encircle  tlie  zenith  with  their  rejoicing 
crown,  and  the  whole  heavens  glow  as  with  an 
altar-flame  of  praise  to  the  Most  High ! 

Equally  do  the  heavens  brighten  over  the  scenes 
of  man's  decay  and  dissolution.  Nowhere  does 
the  Divine  love  seem  so  visibly  and  consciously 
present.  Nowhere  does  prayer  flow  with  so  geni- 
al an  utterance,  and  meet  so  prompt  an  answer. 
Nowhere  reigns  so  serene  a  spirit  of  trust  and 
gratitude.  Beneath  the  pensiveness  of  the  death- 
shadow,  beneath  the  very  paroxysms  of  agony 
that  rend  the  hearts  of  those  so  soon  to  be  be- 
reaved, flows  a  current  of  tranquil  gladness,  of 
joy  that  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent  reigneth,  that 
the  issues  of  life  and  death  are  in  his  hands,  that 
the  dying  are  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  his  love, 
that  his  thoughts  of  peace  may  be  poured  into 
their  souls  when  the  dearest  earthly  voices  can  no 
longer  reacli  them.  These  are  the  seasons  — 
however  severe  the  conflict  of  feeling  while  they 
last  —  on  which  we  love  to  look  back,  and  recall 
the  tokens  of  a  guiding  spirit,  an  all-sufficient 


AUTUMN.  411 

love,  a  Father  who  ''  forsakcth  not  his  children 
when  their  strengtli  failetli  thcni." 

Yet  another  analogy  presents  itself.  The  fad- 
ing of  the  leaf  is  not  death,  but  a  rallying  of  life 
to  its  source  and  centre.  Never  is  the  vitality  of 
the  tree  more  vigorous  than  when  its  juices  and 
its  energies  are  concentrated  in  the  roots,  to  witli- 
stand  the  winter's  cold  and  storms,  and  to  clal)- 
orate,  deep  beneath  the  frost  and  snow,  the  ele- 
ments of  renewed  bloom,  more  ample  growth,  and 
richer  beauty  when  returning  spring  shall  issue 
the  resurrection  fiat.  Thus,  wlicn  the  pure  and 
good  fade  and  sink  into  the  grave,  our  faith  tells 
us  they  are  not  dead.  Only  the  leaf  has  with- 
ered. Only  the  outer  form  has  perished.  Tlie 
life  which  glowed  in  the  countenance,  nerved  the 
arm,  and  clothed  the  frame  with  strength,  has 
been  gathered  up  in  its  fulness  into  the  soul, 
whence  it  emanated,  and,  with  the  winter  of  but 
a  moment,  has  already  grown  green  and  vigorous 
again,  —  for  ever  green,  for  ever  young,  where 

"  everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-withering  llowcrs." 

The  fading  of  tlie  leaf,  too,  reminds  us  of  tlic 
things  that  change  not  and  die  not.  The  same 
earth  from  which  God  first  brouglit  forth  tlie 
herb  yielding  seed  and  tlic  tree  yielding  fruit,  re- 
ceives the  dying  trust  of  every  lierb  and  tree. 
The  same  mountains  that  emerged  from  the 
waters  of  the  flood  hide  their  summits  in  the 


412  '  AUTUMN. 

clouds.  The  same  heavens  wherein  the  psalmist 
beheld  the  glory  of  God  array  themselves  in 
their  autumnal  robe  of  splendor.  The  same 
moon  by  which  Boaz  wrought  his  harvest  task 
makes  our  nights  glorious  as  day.  The  same 
stars  that  kept  watch  over  the  infant  world  per- 
form tlieir  unchanging  circuits.  Thus  is  it  among 
the  vicissitudes  of  life  and  the  ravages  of  death. 
Mortal  affairs  are  ever  fluctuating.  The  current 
of  time  sweeps  on,  undermining  and  ingulfing 
man,  with  all  his  possessions,  plans,  and  hopes. 
Generation  after  generation  is  borne  away  to  join 
the  great  congregation  of  the  dead.  Meanwhile 
God  sits  serene  and  unchangeable,  and  while  the 
waves  of  time  wash  over  his  footstool,  they  shake 
not  the  foundations  of  his  throne.  And,  as  Na- 
ture trustingly  commits  her  germs  of  vernal  life 
to  the  bosom  of  an  unchan^'ino;  earth  and  the 
kindly  influences  of  an  unchanging  sky,  so  let 
us,  in  humble  faith,  —  while  our  bodies  fade  as 
the  leaves  fade  and  die  as  the  flowers  die, — yield 
up  the  germs  of  immortality  within  us  to  Him 
in  whom  the  dead  live,  and  to  whom  all  flesh 
shall  come. 

The  day  will  arrive  when  Nature's  trust  must 
fail.  This  earth,  these  heavens,  though  now  in 
their  age-long  spring,  will  have  their  autumn, 
when  the  stars  will  fade  and  fall  like  leaves, 
when  tlie  sun  will  cut  short  his  circuits,  when  the 
visiljle  monuments  of  creative  power  will  cease 
to  be. 


AUTU5IN.  413 

"  The  seas  shall  waste,  tlic  skies  to  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  full  to  dust,  ami  mountains  melt  away." 

But  our  souls,  in  fiiith  and  love  committed  to 
the  keeping  of  Ilim  who  is  tlie  same  yesterday, 
to-day,  and  for  ever,  shall  live  ou  in  fairer  scenes 
and  among  purer  joys,  tliough  the  earth  be  re- 
moved and  the  heavens  be  no  more. 


35* 


SERMON  XXXII. 


GREATER    THAN   MIRACLES. 

VERILY,  VERILY,  I  SAY  UNTO  YOU,  HE  THAT  BELIEVETH 
ON  ME,  THE  WORKS  THAT  I  DO  SHALL  HE  DO  ALSO  ;  AND 
GREATER  WORKS  THAN  THESE  SHALL  HE  DO  ;  BECAUSE  I  GO 
UNTO  MY  FATHER,  AND  WHATSOEVER  YE  SHALL  ASK  IN  MY 
NAME  THAT  WILL  I  DO,  THAT  THE  FATHER  MAY  BE  GLORI- 
FIED IN  THE  SON.  —  John  xiv.  12,  13. 

In  the  phrase  "  greater  works  than  these," 
tcorks  is  printed  in  Italics,  to  show  the  absence 
of  any  corresponding  word  in  the  original  Greek. 
Had  the  Evangelist  written  "  greater  ivorks^^^  as 
this  word  is  usually  employed  by  him  to  denote 
miracles^  I  should  suppose  that  he  meant  "  great- 
er miracles"  ;  and  yet  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
what  were  or  could  be  greater  than  those  wrought 
by  Jesus  in  his  own  person.  But  in  the  absence 
of  that  word,  I  would  expound  onr  text  as  fol- 
lows :  — "  You,  my  disciples,  after  I  have  left  the 
world  will  indeed  be  endowed,  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  my  religion,  with  the  power  of  working 
miracles  like  my  own.     But  you  will  do  greater 


GREATEIl    THAN    MIRACLES.  11. J 

tilings  tliaii  miracles.  Your  victories  over  your 
own  souls,  your  sacrifice  and  self-denial,  your  lof- 
ty moral  attainments,  -will  possess  a  far  higher 
spiritual  beauty  and  glory  than  can  l)elong  even 
to  the  healing  of  the  sick  or  the  raising  of  the 
dead.  And  such  gifts  will  be  bestowed  upon  you 
through  my  continued  synii^athy  and  aid  ;  for  I 
am  going  from  you  to  your  Father  and  my  Fa- 
ther, and,  in  heaven  as  here,  I  shall  still  l)c  a 
medium  of  holy  influence  for  you,  shedding  ui:)oii 
you  the  choicest  of  heaven's  blessings,  granting 
you  all  that  you  pray  for,  that  thus,  through  my 
mediation,  God's  name  and  grace  may  be  honored 
in  your  obedience  and  holiness." 

There  is  a  narrative  in  the  tenth  chapter  of 
Luke,  in  which  our  Saviour  gives  utterance  to 
the  same  sentiment  under  very  impressive  cir- 
cumstances. He  had  sent  forth  the  seventy  dis- 
ciples endowed  with  power  to  heal  the  sick,  and 
commissioned  to  preach  the  Gospel.  They  re- 
turn to  him  with  joy,  and,  it  would  seem,  with 
some  leaven  of  vanity  ;  for  the  foremost  item  of 
their  report  is,  "  Lord,  even  the  demons  are  siil)- 
jcct  to  us  through  thy  name,"  —  that  is,  they 
had  cured  not  only  common  diseases,  but  cjnlepsy 
and  insanity,  which  the  Jews  of  that  age  ascribed 
to  demoniacal  possession.  Jesus  rejoins  :  "/be- 
held Satan  [the  impersonation  of  moral  evil] 
fcdl  like  lightning  from  heaven"  ;  that  is,  "  My 
thoughts  were   occupied,   not  Avitli   tlie   outward 


416  GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES. 

miracles  to  be  wroiiglit  through  your  instrumen- 
tality, but  with  the  inroad  which  you  might  make 
on  the  reign  of  irreligion  and  guilt.  You  have 
started  Satan  from  his  exalted  throne.  The  pow- 
ers of  darkness  are  no  longer  in  the  ascendant. 
You  have  inaugurated  a  new  era,  not  for  suffer- 
ing bodies,  but  for  sin-bound  souls."  And  then 
he  goes  on  to  say :  "  Behold,  I  give  unto  you 
power  to  tread  uninjured  on  serpents  and  scorpi- 
ons, and  over  all  the  power  of  the  enemy,  —  over 
whatever  can  do  you  harm,  —  and  nothing  shall 
by  any  means  hurt  you.  Yet  no  gift  of  this  kind 
is  for  your  own  sakes,  or  is  a  fit  object  of  self- 
congratulation.  Rejoice  not  that  the  demons  are 
subject  unto  you ;  for  these  are  works  wrought 
rather  through  you  than  by  you,  —  they  imply 
the  power  of  God,  but  furnish  no  test  of  your 
own  characters.  Rather,  then,  rejoice  that  your 
names  are  written  in  heaven,  —  that  yon  have 
the  faith,  devout  feeling,  and  holy  purpose  which 
can  fit  you  for  heavenly  happiness." 

Our  text,  thus  illustrated,  simply  teaches  the 
transcendent  greatness  and  glory  of  goodness. 
In  this  sense,  it  derives  its  richest  illustration 
from  our  Saviour's  own  character.  His  mira- 
cles, indeed,  we  cannot  over-estimate  ;  but  they 
teach  us  less  of  himself  than  of  God.  They  open 
the  depths  of  the  Divine  attributes  and  counsels, 
not  of  the  Saviour's  soul.  They  call  forth  the 
glad  shout,  "  God  liath  visited  and  redeemed  his 


GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES.  417 

people,''  but  -would  not  of  themselves  elicit  tin 
outpouring  of  the  licart,  "  Lord,   tliou  knowes'; 
tliat  I  love  thee."     In  trutli,   tlioy  derive  their 
greatest  attractiveness  from  the  manifestations  of 
Ids  own  character  connected  with  them,  —  from  tlic 
tenderness  of  his  compassion,  the  profoundness  of 
his  sympathy,  the  warmtli  of  his  love.     It  was 
before  lie  had  called  Lazarus  from  the  tomb,  that 
the  by  no  means  friendly  by-standers  exclaimed, 
"  Behold  how  he  loved  him  !"     We  look  upon  his 
miracles  without  surprise,  because  we  feel  that 
there  was  that  in  his  whole. life  and  spirit  which 
"was  greater  than  they,  —  that  which  made  his 
lordly  walk  among  the  powers  of  nature  no  less 
the  type  and  expression  of  his  godlike  personal- 
ity, than  is  our  subjection  to  them  the  token  of 
souls  often  clouded  by  error  and  sin.     But  our 
associations  of  his  spiritual  glory  linger  chiefly 
around  the  scenes  of  his  humiliation,  distress,  and 
suffering;  —  when   he  overcame  the  gainsaying 
of  his  enemies  by  the  meekness  of  wisdom  ;  when 
he  lifted  his  midnight  prayer  on  the  lone  moun- 
tain ;  when  he  raised  the  weeping  penitent  with 
words  of  good  cheer  which  no  other  lips  in  Ju- 
daea would  have  dared  to  utter ;  when,  having 
power  to  save  his  life,  he  chose  to  lay  it  down ; 
wdien  he  poured  forth  his  sympathy  and   inter- 
cessions at  the  paschal  table  ;  when,  in  Gethscm- 
ane,  mortal  agony  soothed  itself  into  calm  resig- 
nation, and  rose  in  godlike  strength  to  meet  the 


418  GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES. 

impending  doom ;  when  tlic  crown  of  thorns  la- 
cerated that  benignant  brow  ;  when  he  trod  the 
way  of  grief  under  the  burden  of  the  cross  ;  when 
from  that  instrument  of  torture,  as  from  a  regal 
throne,  he  dispensed  pardons,  loving  mandates, 
heavenly  benedictions.  AVe  spontaneously  feel 
that  there  was  more  glory  in  these  manifestations 
of  character  than  in  the  creation  of  a  world,  — 
a  universe. 

As  regards  the  Apostles,  though  they  were  en- 
dowed with  miraculous  gifts,  to  excite  the  atten- 
tion and  help  the  faith  of  those  to  whom  they  car- 
ried the  Avord  of  the  Lord,  do  those  gifts  enter  at 
all  into  our  estimate  of  their  characters  ?  Does 
not  Paul's  shaking  the  viper  from  his  hand  with- 
out harm  seem  a  very  small  matter,  compared 
with  liis  renunciation  of  emolument,  office,  and 
honor,  of  the  high  places  in  society  which  he 
might  have  adorned,  of  the  halls  of  learning  in 
wliich  he  might  have  slione  pre-eminent,  and  his 
adhering  to  the  despised  cause  of  the  crucified 
Nazarene  ?  Are  not  the  chains  which  clanked 
upon  his  wrists,  as  he  wrote  those  words  of  un- 
earthly trust,  gladness,  hope,  and  triumph,  im- 
measurably more  glorious  than  the  garlands  and 
sacrifices  wliich  the  idolaters  of  Lystra,  astound- 
ed by  his  miracles,  brought  to  him  as  a  god  hi 
the  likeness  of  man  ? 

But  our  concern  is  chiefly  with  our  own  char- 
acters ;  and  our  constant  danger  is  that  we  neg- 


GliEATER    THAN    MIIIACLKS.  419 

Icct  or  undcrvaluo,  for  outward  doings,  successes, 
and  attainments,  the  greater  than  miracles  which 
we  may  achicvo  and  bo  in  our  spiritual  conflicts 
and  victories,  —  in  the  virtues  that  may  clotlie 
and  the  graces  that  may  adoru  our  souls,  —  in 
the  Divine  image  which  wo  may  transcribe  and 
boar  with  ever-growing  vividness  of  resemblance, 
—  in  the  realization,  which  may  be  ours,  of  those 
good  words  of  the  Saviour,  "  The  glory  that  thou 
gavest  me,  I  have  given  them."  Let  us  look,  for 
our  instruction,  at  some  of  the  modes  in  whicli 
the  sentiment  of  our  text  may  be  verified  in  our 
experience. 

1.  There  is  that  which  is  greater  tlian  miracle 
in  resistance  to  evil.  The  self-emancipated  from 
the  thraldom  of  appetite  and  vicious  habit  are 
among  the  strongest  and  noblest  of  the  race. 
Those  of  us  whose  early  nurture  was  under  fa- 
voring circumstances,  so  that  our  faults  never  de- 
veloped themselves  into  vices,  can  hardly  know 
how  intense  is  the  power  of  the  degrading  and 
destructive  appetites  and  jDassions  which  hold  so 
many  in  bondage.  We  speak  with  literal  trutli, 
when  we  say  that  it  is  more  than  a  miracle  fin- 
one  thus  fallen  to  rise  again.  And  yet  he  may. 
The  energy  of  his  will  slumbers,  yet  is  not  dead. 
The  power  of  that  name,  in  which  the  impotent 
man  walked  and  leaped  and  praised  God,  is  prof- 
fered for  his  rescue.  He  may,  l^y  agonizing 
prayer,  get  a  purchase  on  the  throne  of  the  Cm- 


420  GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES, 

nipotent,  by  which  lie  can  lift  the  monntain-load 
of  sensual  habit  and  longing,  and  cast  it  into  the 
sea.  But  he  must  gird  himself  as  to  a  great 
work.  He  must  be  resolute,  imperative,  in  his 
self-denial ;  heedless  of  the  thousand  pretences  on 
which  the  expelled  demon  will  strive  to  open,  as 
by  a  mere  hand's  breadth,  the  door  closed  against 
him ;  deaf  to  friendly  voices  that  would  lure  him 
a  little  way  back  on  the  steps  which  he  cannot 
begin  to  retrace  without  measuring  them  all  back 
again.  And,  above  all,  he  must  fortify  himself 
by  earnest  prayer,  by  a  profound  consciousness 
of  the  present  God,  by  a  deep  sense  of  the  powers 
of  the  world  to  come,  by  the  constant  feeling  that 
he  is  doing  battle  for  his  soul,  —  for  all  that  can 
be  Avorth  living  for,  —  for  all  that  can  minister 
to  his  acceptance  and  gladness  when  he  stands 
before  the  Divine  tribunal.  He  who  shall  thus 
wrestle  with  the  foul  fiend,  and  pluck  from  his 
brow  the  palm  of  victory,  has  won  for  himself 
lofty  praise  and  enduring  glory,  has  written  his 
name  high  among  those  great  in  the  sight  of 
God,  has  wrought  that  of  which  the  miracles  of 
the  first  Christian  age  were  but  the  symbol  and 
shadow. 

2.  Love  is  greater  than  miracle ;  for  "  proph- 
ecy shall  fail,  tongues  shall  cease,  knowledge 
shall  vanish  away,  but  love  never  faileth."  The 
miracles  which  our  Saviour  wrought  for  suffer- 
ing humanity  were  types  and  models  of  the  still 


GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES.  421 

greater  achievements  wrought  by  his  followers 
through  his  helping  spirit.  His  word,  whicli 
bade  the  paralytic  take  up  his  bed  and  walk,  has 
sent  its  echo  all  down  througli  the  Clu'istian  ages. 
It  breathes  in  the  hospitals  of  the  Old  World  and 
the  New,  where  even  corporations  and  comniuni- 
tics  take  the  place  of  the  good  Samaritan,  and 
tenderly  woo  back  health  to  the  diseased  organs 
and  soundness  to  the  shattered  frame.  It  in- 
spires those  who  move  as  angels  of  mercy  through 
the  streets  swept  by  swift  and  deadly  pestilence, 
smooth  the  brow  knotted  in  mortal  agony,  and 
pour  thoughts  of  peace  into  the  departing  soul.  It 
prompts  and  gladdens  the  steps  of  those  who,  with- 
out parade  or  ostentation,  carry  comfort  and  hope 
to  the  home  of  destitute  illness  and  infirmity,  and 
watch  as  with  a  daughter's  assiduity  the  flickering 
life-lamp  of  desolate  and  helpless  age.  The  touch 
which  healed  the  loathsome  leper  has  been  trans- 
mitted through  all  the  lineage  of  the  Saviour, 
and  is  still  put  forth  to  relieve  those  forms  of 
guilt  and  degradation,  from  which  fastidiousness 
recoils  and  sensibility  stands  aloof,  and  which  the 
worldly-wise  would  leave  to  perish  luicared  for. 
It  is  this  that  reaches  the  prisoner  in  his  cell,  the 
slave  in  liis  house  of  bondage,  the  squalid  hea- 
then of  our  great  cities,  the  despised  and  reject- 
ed of  all  but  Christian  hearts.  The  power  which 
gave  sight  to  the  man  born  blind  is  put  fortli, 
through  the  followers  of  Christ,  in  world-embra- 

36 


422  GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES. 

cing  efforts  for  the  enliglitenment  of  those  that  sit 
in  darkness,  in  the  instruction  of  the  chiklren  of 
ignorance  and  vice,  in  the  outstretching  of  Gos- 
pel ministries  till  the  vast  globe  is  girdled  by  re- 
sponses to  the  Divine  call,  —  "  Say  to  the  north, 
Give  up,  and  to  the  south.  Keep  not  back  ;  bring 
my  sons  from  afar,  my  daughters  from  the  ends 
of  the  earth."  These  various  forms  of  philanthro- 
py are  greater  than  miracles,  inasmuch  as  the  ef- 
fect is  greater  than  the  cause,  the  oak  than  the 
acorn,  the  field  white  for  the  harvest  than  the 
handful  of  seed-corn  cast  into  its  bosom. 

3.  There  is  a  power  of  endurance  that  is  great- 
er than  miracle.  No  spectacle  is  more  sublime 
than  that  of  a  truly  Christian  soul  in  severe  af- 
fliction. No  soul  can  feel  so  deeply ;  for  religion 
intensifies  the  affections  which  a  bereaving  Prov- 
idence may  wound,  adds  tenderness  to  the  sen- 
sibilities which  may  be  lacerated  by  the  thorns 
on  tlie  life-road,  enhances  the  power  of  suffering 
no  less  than  of  gladness.  It  is  not,  then,  indif- 
ference, it  is  not  an  impassible  nature  that  checks 
the  rising  murmur,  and  calls  forth  the  voice  of 
serene  submission, "  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 
That  sufferer  has  gone  down  into  the  profoundest 
dcptlis  of  agony,  —  has  trodden  with  bleeding 
feet  the  bloody  wine-press  ;  but  He  who  trod  it  for 
us  all  is  at  liis  side,  breathes  into  the  disciple  liis 
own  spirit,  dictates  the  words  of  his  own  prayer, 
and  holds  forth  the  tropliies  of  his  own  victory. 


GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES.  423 

And  when,  in  the  wreck  of  human  joy,  faith  can 
kneel  and  adore  ;  Avlien  "  Father,  1  thank  thee!" 
goes  Tip  from  the  liome  and  lieart  made  desolate ; 
when  heavenly  Peace  folds  licr  Avings  over  the 
stricken  spirit ;  when  the  liope  of  immortality  ir- 
radiates tlie  gloom  of  bereavement  or  of  penury, 
—  we  then  witness  more  than  miracle, —  a  more 
subtile,  a  more  penetrating  power  of  Jesus,  than 
when  lifeless  matter  moved  at  his  word,  tliougli 
that  matter  were  the  lifeless  tenement  of  a  living 
soul. 

4.  Finally,  there  are  phenomena  greater  than 
miracle  in  the  death  of  the  Christian.  Only  those 
who  arc  familiar  with  the  scene  can  appreciate 
the  awful,  momentous  solemnity  of  the  closing 
hour  of  life.  The  sundering  of  every  tie  of  homo 
and  of  society,  the  separation  from  all  that  has 
been  pursued  and  enjoyed,  the  inconceivable 
change  that  awaits  the  soul,  the  plunge  into  the 
dread  unknown,  the  dense,  palpable  blackness 
which  to  the  earthly  vision  lies  beyond  the  parting 
moment,  —  no  wonder  that,  with  all  these  things 
in  view,  the  soul,  shuddering 

"  to  o'erlcap  the  bounds, 
Yet  clings  to  being's  severing  link." 

TIow  sublime,  then,  the  faith  wliich  looks  within 
the  veil,  wliich  feels  and  anticipates  no  evil,  wliich 
can  express  its  willingness,  its  joy  to  depart  and 
be  with  Christ,  which  has  not  a  lingering  doubt 
or  fear,  but  can  say,  —  "  1  know  in  whom  I  have 


42^  GREATER    THAN    MIRACLES. 

believed ;  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  livetli ! " 
The  soul  puts  forth  in  life  no  power  to  be  com- 
pared with  that  thus  manifested  in  dying,  —  not 
indeed  its  own  strength,  but  the  overcoming  might 
of  Him  who  conquered  death.  Nowhere  are  avc 
so  sure,  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  of  the  ful- 
filment of  his  words,  —  "  Lo,  I  am  with  you  al- 
way,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world."  The  voice 
that  waked  the  widow's  son  from  the  bier  and 
Lazarus  from  the  tomb,  vibrates  along  the  ages, 
and  is  heard  anew  by  the  disciple  as  the  death- 
shadow  closes  over  him.  The  resurrection-touch 
thrills  through  his  spirit,  before  life  has  left  its 
mortal  habitation.  The  Lord's  call.  Come  forth, 
echoes  through  the  walls  of  that  crumbling  ten- 
ement, as  once  through  those  of  the  sepulchre  in 
Bethany.  The  miracle  of  that  hour  reproduces 
itself  in  more  than  miracle  for  the  strong  man 
and  him  who  bows  under  the  weight  of  many 
years,  matron  and  maid,  the  unlettered  follower 
of  Jesus  and  the  great,  wise,  and  noble  among 
the  ranks  of  his  disciples,  as  with  one  voice  they 
take  up  the  glorious  strain  of  apostolic  triumph, 
—  "0  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  0  grave, 
where  is  thy  victory  ?  Thanks  be  to  God,  which 
giveth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ." 


SERMON  XXXIII 


ALL  POWER    GOD'S. 

"  GOD  n.VTH  SPOKEN  ONCE  ;  TWICE  HAVE  I  HEARD  THIS, 
THAT  POWER  BELONGETH  UNTO  GOD.  ALSO  UNTO  TUEE, 
O  LORD,  BELONGETH  3IEKCY  :  FOR  THOU  RENDEREST  TO 
EVERY  MAN  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  WORK." — Psallll  Ixil.  11, 
12. 

The  very  being  of  God  includes  omnipotence. 
If  he  exists,  he  is  the  ultimate  source  of  all  pow- 
er. Yet  with  regard  to  the  Divine  power  there 
are  two  tenable  theories,  ditTering  widely,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  alike  in  their  intrinsic  claims  on  our 
credence,  in  their  hold  on  Scriptural  authority, 
and  in  their  adaptation  to  our  spiritual  nature 
and  needs.  According  to  the  one  view,  the  Al- 
mighty has  lodged  in  the  various  agencies  of  tlie 
material  world  capacities  and  tendencies,  ])y  vir- 
tue of  which  they  prolong  the  order  and  harmony 
of  nature,  perpetuate  the  races  of  organized  and 
animated  being,  and  work  out  a  course  of  evcMits, 
incidentally  disastrous,  yet  in  the  main  beneficial, 

36* 


426  ALL  rowER  god's. 

and  adapted  to  produce  a  vast  and  ever-increasing 
preponderance  of  happiness  over  misery,  and  of 
good  over  evil.  But  as  to  incidental  evil,  God  in 
no  way  interposes,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  avert 
it,  or  to  transform  it  into  good,  so  that  Are  have 
no  guaranty,  as  regards  any  disastrous  event,  of 
its  actually  beneficent  use  or  capacity,  nor  yet  is 
such  an  event  to  be  regarded  as  good,  except  as 
inseparable  from  a  generally  beneficent  plan.  Ac- 
cording to  this  theory,  human  agency  is  uncon- 
trolled in  its  own  sphere,  and  the  mischief  which 
man  may  do  to  his  fellow-man  is  limited  only  by 
the  strength  of  his  will  and  the  range  of  his  ac- 
tivity ;  while  there  is  no  happy  or  hopeful  view 
that  we  can  take  even  of  the  external  evil  which 
guilt  and  crime  produce  in  the  world. 

According  to  the  other  view,  God  is  actively 
present  in  the  entire  universe,  upholding  all 
things  by  the  word  of  his  power,  guiding  the 
course  of  events  by  his  own  perpetual  fiat, — pre- 
serving, indeed,  a  certayi  uniformity  in  sequences 
which  we  call  cause  and  effect,  so  far  as  is  needed 
to  assist  human  calculation  and  to  give  definite 
aim  to  human  endeavor,  but  behind  the  order  of 
visible  causes  adjusting  whatever  takes  place  with 
immediate  and  constant  reference  to  the  needs, 
the  deserts,  and  the  ultimate  well-being  of  his 
creatures  ;  ordaining  the  seeming  evil  no  less 
tlian  the  seeming  good,  making  even  wicked  men 
his  sword ;  so  overruling  malignity  and  evil  pas- 


ALL    POWER    god's.  427 

sion  as  to  work  out  their  own  ultimate  extinction 
and  the  ascendency  of  trutli  and  right ;  so  mod- 
ifying the  results  of  vicious  agency,  tliat  th(.'y 
shall  either,  on  tlie  one  hand,  harmonize  witli  the 
salutary  alTliction  which  flows  confessedly  from 
his  appointment,  or,  on  the  other,  subserve  the 
essential  ends  of  moral  demonstration,  rebuke, 
and  retribution. 

I  hardly  need  say,  that  this  last  is  the  view 
directly  sanctioned  by  the  express  language  and 
the  entire  tenor  of  Scripture.  Indeed,  as  much 
as  this  is  admitted  by  the  Christian  advocates  of 
the  former  theory,  who  regard  the  sacred  writers 
as  by  a  bold,  yet  legitimate  figure  ascribing  to 
the  direct  action  of  the  Almighty  whatever  takes 
place  under  a  system  initiated  by  his  power  and 
sanctioned  by  his  wisdom.  But  there  was,  it 
seems  to  me,  immeasurably  more  than  figure  in 
their  minds.  To  them  the  curtain  of  general 
laws,  which  hangs  in  so  dense  drapery  before  the 
eyes  of  modern  philosophy,  was  transparent,  and 
they  saw  no  intervening  agency,  no  intermediate 
force,  between  the  Creator  and  the  development 
of  his  purposes  in  nature  and  in  providence. 
"  He  maketli  the  winds  his  angels,  and  flames  of 
fire  his  ministers."  "  The  voice  of  the  Lord  is 
upon  the  waters ;  the  God  of  glory  thundereth." 
*'  These  wait  all  upon  thee,  that  thou  mayest  give 
them  their  meat  in  due  season."  "  Shall  there 
be  evil  in  a  city,  and  the  Lord  hath  not  done  it  ?  " 


428  ALL    POWER    GOD  S. 

*'  The  Lord  killetli,  and  maketh  alive ;  lie  bring- 
etli  loA7,  aiid  lifteth  up."  "  Surely  the  wrath  of 
man  shall  praise  thee ;  the  remainder  of  wrath 
thou  wilt  restrain."  "  The  hairs  of  your  head 
are  all  numbered."  "  The  sparrow  falleth  not  to 
the  ground  without  your  Father."  If  these  are 
mere  figures,  I  know  not  how  we  are  to  assign 
limits  to  figurative  interpretation,  or  what  Scrip- 
tural language  there  is,  of  which  we  may  be  sure 
that  it  means  what  it  seems  to  mean. 

But  without  pressing  phraseology  of  this  class, 
which  occurs  on  almost  every  page  of  the  Bible, 
we  might  derive  the  same  inference  from  the  duty 
of  unlimited,  unqualified  trust  constantly  incul- 
cated in  Scripture  by  explicit  precept,  by  the  ex- 
amples of  saints  under  both  the  Old  and  the  New 
Covenant,  and  by  that  of  the  Divine  Founder  of 
our  religion.  This  trust  is  impossible  under  any- 
thing less  than  a  perfect  Providence  ;  for  under  a 
system  only  generally  beneficent,  how  know  we 
but  that  we  are  the  destined  victims  ?  In  a  lot- 
tery with  but  one  blank  to  a  thousand  prizes,  how 
know  we  that  the  one  blank  is  not  ours  ?  Nay, 
Ave  shall  be  sure  to  think  and  to  feel  that  it  is 
ours  in  the  stress  of  impending,  or  the  fresh  sor- 
row of  realized,  calamity ;  and  the  philosophic 
trust  which  we  may  cherish  in  a  general  Provi- 
dence will  fail  us  at  the  very  times  when  all  that 
we  can  do  is  to  submit,  believe,  trust,  and  hope. 

Our  view  of  tlie  direct  administration  and  per- 


ALL    POWER    god's.  429 

feet  providcnco  of  God  is  confirmed  l)y  tlic  re- 
sults, or  ratlicr  by  the  iiou-rcsults,  of  science. 
Six  thousand  years  of  research  have  failed  to  re- 
veal the  latent  forces,  to  lay  bare  the  hidden 
springs,  of  nature.  Gravitation,  cohesion,  crys- 
tallization, organization,  decomposition,  —  these 
are  but  names  for  our  ignorance,  —  fence-words 
set  up  at  the  extrcmest  limits  of  our  knowledge. 
That  Nature  pursues  her  course  and  events  take 
place  under  such  and  such  conditions,  is  the  ut- 
most that  we  can  say.  We  find  it  impossiljle  to 
conceive  of  any  innate  or  permanently  inherent 
force  in  brute  matter,  but  by  the  very  laws  of 
thought  we  are  constrained  to  attribute  all  power 
to  mind,  intelligence,  volition. 

I  admit,  however,  that  without  the  revelation 
of  immortality  there  would  be  great  difficulty  in 
the  admission  of  a  Providence  always  benignant; 
and  while  we  might  even  then  well  hesitate  to  as- 
cribe power  to  lifeless  matter,  we  might  be  driven 
to  the  Oriental  hypothesis  of  conflicting  spiritual 
agencies,  —  a  semi-omnipotent  evil  intclligonce 
in  perpetual  antagonism  with  the  Supremely 
Good.  The  difficulty  does  not  attach  itself  to 
the  afflictions,  however  severe,  which  fall  to  the 
lot  of  those  who  are  growing  in  moral  excellence  ; 
for  we  always  see  in  a  progressive  character  an 
alcmljic  in  which  sorrow  is  transformed  into 
spiritual  nutriment,  —  a  divine  alchemy  through 
which  all  things  work  together  for  good  j  and  the 


430  ALL  rowER  god's. 

heaviest  trials  wliich  are  tliiis  converted  to  be- 
neficent uses  arc  no  more  a  mystery  than  are  the 
lowering  days  and  dreary  rains  of  the  spring  as 
regards  the  fields  and  meadows.  Nor  yet  need 
the  calamities  that  befall  the  highly  privileged, 
but  non-improving,  create  an  insuperable  diffi- 
culty ;  for  they  may  be  regarded,  on  the  one  hand, 
as  a  merited  retribution,  or,  on  the  other,  (and  I 
believe  with  greater  fitness,)  as  proffering  the 
best  adapted  and  most  hopeful  means  —  for  the 
inefficacy  of  which  they  themselves  are  account- 
able —  of  awakening  them  to  a  sense  of  their  re- 
lation to  God,  their  obligation  to  him,  and  their 
amenableness  at  his  tribunal. 

But  there  are  numerous  cases,  in  which  heavy 
calamity  falls,  and  rests  prolongedly,  on  those 
whose  unprivileged  condition  renders  trial  utter- 
ly useless.  Here  we  are  fully  relieved  by  the  as- 
surance of  immortality ;  for  the  period  of  their 
endurance  bears  no  assignable  proportion  to  the 
eternal  life  at  the  threshold  of  which  they  wait 
and  suffer.  Their  time  of  privilege  is  beyond 
our  earth-bound  vision,  but  it  is  hastening  on  for 
each  and  all ;  and  it  is  entirely  conceivable  that 
the  remembered  sufferings  of  their  sojourn  here 
may  be  among  the  choicest  means  of  their  spirit- 
ual nurture  in  heaven,  and  that,  for  the  fervor  of 
their  zeal,  and  the  strength  of  tlieir  allegiance 
to  the  Saviour  whom  they  will  first  know  when 
tliey  emerge  on  the  farther  side  of  tlic  shadow 


ALL    POWER    god's.  431 

of  death,  it  may  be  said  of  them,  as  of  such  multi- 
tudcs  tliat  belonged  to  liis  earthly  fold, — "These 
are  they  which  came  out  of  great  tribulation." 
AVe  do  wrong  to  our  Cliristian  faith,  if  sincere, 
when  wo  exclude  it  from  our  philosophy,  —  when 
we  fail  to  concentrate  its  full  radiance  on  tlie 
else  dark  passages  of  the  Divine  Providence. 
We  do  equal  wrong  to  our  intuitive  sense  of  jus- 
tice and  to  the  benign  spirit  of  our  religion, 
when,  because  tribulation  and  anguish  in  the 
world  to  como  are  the  destined  lot  of  those  who, 
having  the  full  liglit  of  the  Gospel,  refuse  to 
avail  themselves  of  it,  we  tacitly  include  in  the 
same  doom,  or,  from  complaisance  to  the  advo- 
cates of  a  sterner  theology,  we  refuse  in  thought 
to  exempt  from  that  doom,  those  to  whose  case 
we  might  apply  the  spirit  of  our  Saviour's  words, 
—  "  If  I  had  not  come  and  spoken  unto  them, 
they  had  not  had  sin." 

We  may  thus  set  aside  such  objections  as  flow 
from  unavoidable  human  suffering,  so  far  as  it  is 
the  direct  act  of  God.  And,  these  objections  set 
aside,  do  not  insuperable  dilliculties  lie  in  the 
way  of  any  supposition  other  than  tlie  direct 
action  of  the  Almighty  in  the  entire  external 
universe  ?  Omnipresence,  omniscience,  is  implied 
in  the  very  conception  of  God.  But  can  his,  at 
any  moment  or  in  any  part  of  his  creation,  be  a 
powerless  knowledge,  an  inert  presence,  —  a  mere 
watching  of  machinery  wound  up  and  put  in 


432  ALL    POWER    GOD*S. 

motion  in  unknown  ages  past,  and  to  run  for  un- 
known ages  yet  to  come  ?  Can  we  conceive  of 
him  as  present,  and  not  vitally,  actively  present  ? 
I  cannot,  and  I  rejoice  that  I  cannot.  To  my 
thought,  the  bloom  and  verdure  that  clothe  the 
earth  this  day  are  no  less  his  immediate  handi- 
work, than  were  those  on  which  Adam's  eyes 
opened  in  Eden.  The  trees  and  shrubs  that  now 
wave  and  rustle  in  the  breeze  are  no  less  suffused 
with  his  just-spoken  blessing,  than  the  burning 
bush  on  Horeb  was  vocal  with  his  audible  voice. 
The  waves  are  no  less  upheaved  this  morning  by 
the  direct  action  of  his  power,  than  the  waters  were 
of  old  piled  up  by  his  might  to  wall  in  a  safe  path 
for  his  ransomed  to  pass  through.  The  scanty 
seed-corn  of  late  committed  to  the  earth  will  be 
no  less  multiplied  thirty,  sixty,  and  a  hundred- 
fold by  his  wonder-working  providence,  than  the 
widow's  handful  of  meal  grew  by  his  benediction 
during  the  weary  months  of  famine.  Do  you 
say  that  there  is  something  belittling  in  the 
thought  of  this  minute  agency  of  the  Infinite 
God  ?  What  is  not  minute,  —  what  concerns  of 
nations,  planets,  or  systems  are  vast  and  grand  to 
him,  whose  worlds  crowd  the  telescopic  vision  by 
myriads,  and  stud  the  heavens  as  countless  as  the 
sand  on  the  sea-shore  ?  These  distinctions  of 
magnitude  and  importance  vanish  in  his  sight. 

"  To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all." 


ALK   rowr.ii  GoD'ri.  433 

But  what  shall  wc  say  of  inaiTs  powt.'r  over 
outward  iiaturo  and  cvouts  ?  We  arc  conscious 
of  frc3  volition.  Is  it  ours  to  cxociitc  our  owu 
volitions;  or  is  it  literally  in  God  that  wc  live, 
and  move,  and  have  our  l)cin,<^?  1  cannot  con- 
ceive of  divided  power,  of  concurrcuit  sovcr- 
cij^nty,  iu  the  same  domain,  —  of  oural)ility  U)  do 
what  he  Avould  not  have  us  do.  'J'hat  we  can 
Avill  what  he  wills  not,  Ave  know  only  too  well ; 
but  must  wo  not  reach  the  conclusion  that  he  ex- 
ecutes our  volitions  fen-  us  whether  they  be  good 
or  evil,  —  nay,  that  the  execution  of  these  voli- 
tions, whatever  they  arc,  is  always  good,  —  that 
he  literally  makes  "  tlio  wrath  of  man  "  to  praise 
him,  and  "the  romaindor  of  wrath"  —  (hat  wiiose 
mission  would  be  unavailing  f(n-  tlie  i)urposes  of 
his  rii»'htcous  administration  —  he  will  so  "re- 
strain"  as  to  frustrate  of  its  cud  ?  J)o  we  thus 
make  God  the  author  of  evil  ?  Far  otherwise. 
So  long  as  his  spiritual  children  are  endowed 
with  freedom  of  volition,  sin  is  possible;  and  so 
long  as  sin  exists,  the  occurrence  and  contin- 
uance of  its  consequences  in  all  their  vilencss 
and  deformity  is  an  essential  part  of  the  system, 
which  is  ultimately  to  aholish  sin,  tocstal»lish  the 
reign  of  universal  righteousness,  and  to  weld  free 
agency  and  right  volition  in  a  union  to  be  made 
sacred  and  permanent  by  the  rinis]ic<l  and  trans- 
mitted cxporionce  of  the  long  ages  v)f  violence, 
wrong,  and  guilt. 

37 


434:  ALL  rowER  god's. 

Let  me  illustrate  this  thought  by  a  supposed 
case.  You  have  a  child  whom  you  would  train 
iu  liabits  of  soberness,  self-control,  and  rigid  vir- 
tue. Your  time  is  at  your  own  command  ;  your 
resources  are  unlimited.  You  determine  that  he 
sliall  see  in  some  outward  form  the  reflection  of 
every  disposition  that  he  cherishes,  of  every  way- 
Av^ard  choice  and  every  right  purpose.  For  each 
forthputting  of  genial  feeling,  of  conscientious- 
ness, of  kindness,  you  create  before  his  eye  some 
form  of  beauty  or  utility.  You  follow  up  his  peev- 
ishness and  petulance  by  placing  and  keeping  in 
his  sight  some  repulsive  object  or  scene,  —  the 
fit  embodiment  of  the  temper  you  would  rebuke. 
You  produce,  and  compel  him  to  witness  pro- 
longedly,  havoc  and  desolation  among  objects  un- 
der his  cognizance,  for  every  lit  of  groundless  or 
excessive  anger.  You  thus  write  out  his  whole 
moral  history  in  the  aspect  of  his  nursery  or  play- 
ground, and  sustain  under  his  constant  inspection 
mementos  that  he  must  needs  see  and  feel  of 
whatever  good  and  whatever  evil  there  is  in  his 
mind  and  character.  Had  you  the  ability  thus 
to  educate  your  cliild,  think  you  not  that  it  woidd 
l)e  the  readiest  and  most  effectual  way  of  erad- 
icating the  evil  and  establishing  the  supremacy 
of  tlie  good  ? 

It  is  thus,  it  seems  to  me,  that  God  is  educat- 
ing the  races  and  the  generations  of  men.  To 
suppress  the   consequences  of  sin  would   be   to 


ALL    rOWKK    CODS.  4^5 

manifest  iiidilTorciiC'C  to  inoi-al  disliiiclioiis,  to  jxm- 
potuato  Iho  sii])ri!niacy  of  guilt,  to  inak(!  evil  o-rov.- 
Avith  tlio  march  ol'  the  ag(3s,  mid  lasteii  its  otcnial 
hold  oil  the  lieart  of  humanity  without  remedy 
or  liope.  So  long  as  man  will  sin,  it  is  immcas- 
ural)ly  for  the  best  that  his  sin  should  do  its  aj)- 
l)ropriato  work  in  the  eyes  of  the  sinful  and  the 
tc!mi)ted.  So  far  as  that  work  is  external  in  the 
form  of  calamity,  there  is  nothing  that  need  dis- 
tinguish it  from  the  so-called  direct  visitation  of 
an  afflictive  Providence.  For  those  Avho  are  in 
successful  training  for  a  higher  sphere  of  being, 
it  has  its  double  ministry,  in  the  winnowing,  hal- 
lowing power  of  all  sorrow  over  the  principles 
and  affections  ;  and  in  sustaining  the  hatred  and 
dread  of  moral  evil  l)y  the  innocent  experience  of 
its  bitter  fruits.  For  those  who  are  yet  to  be 
won  to  duty,  the  unsightly  and  odious  consequen- 
ces of  sin  arc  the  most  effective  preachers  of  re- 
pentance and  righteousness,  often  heard  and  heed- 
ed by  those  who  have  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  every 
other  mode  of  appeal.  For  the  unprivileged  and 
irresponsible  sufferers  l)y  the  guilt  of  thcdr  lu'eth- 
rcn,  we  know  not  what  essential  and  Idesscd 
ministries  such  remembered  experiences  may  sul)- 
serve  in  that  spiritual  education  which,  we  cannot 
but  believe,  is  destined  for  them,  under  better 
auspices,  in  other  realms  of  being. 

Nor  can  we  sv.p])oso  mat  God  will  give  clTect 
to  a  guilty  d"s]v.»-itiua   or  jjur})Ose  in   any  other 


43 G  ALL    POWER    god's. 

way  or  instance  than  may  serve  the  ends  of  disci- 
pline, warning,  rcbulvc,  or  merited  punislnnent. 
In  tliousands  of  ways  his  providence  may  and  docs 
make  void  the  thought  of  evil,  the  counsel  of  vio- 
lence, —  avert  the  blow  which  guilty  man  would 
aim  at  the  peace  of  his  fellow-men.  Where  his 
wisdom  sees  fit  to  save,  he  can  say  as  effectually 
to  human  malice  as  to  wind  and  wave,  "  Touch 
not  mine  anointed,  anil  do  my  servants  no  harm." 
Ovei:  the  agitated  sea  of  depraved  passions,  over 
the  field  of  reckless  carnage,  over  the  haunts  of 
those  who  lurk  privily  for  the  blood  of  their  breth- 
ren, the  fan  of  his  discriminating  providence  waves 
with  no  less  unerring  choice,  with  no  less  mer- 
ited or  merciful  doom,  or  needed  and  signal  de- 
liverance, than  over  the  daily  paths  of  disease  and 
death  among  the  walks  of  quiet  and  peaceful  life. 
Kvil  and  death  come  to  none,  for  whom  it  is  not 
the  fit  time  and  way  in  the  counsels  of  retributive 
justice,  or  the  best  time  and  way  in  the  counsels 
of  paternal  love. 

1  am  aware  that  this  view  may  to  some  minds 
seem  at  first  thought  harsh  and  revolting.  Jhit 
not  so  when  we  consider  the  only  alternative. 
For  can  God  have  left  us  unsheltered,  to  be 
preyed  upon  and  sacrificed  by  the  evil  passions  of 
our  brethren  ?  Are  we  cast  solely  at  the  mercy 
of  our  foUow-men?  In  our  exposure  to  the  un- 
numbered forms  of  violence  and  recklessness  that 
not  unfrefpiently  l)eset  us.  is  our  only  security  the 


ALL  ruwi:u  god's.  437 

chance  tliat  they  may  not  select  us  as  tljoir  vic- 
tims ?  Can  "\ve  suH'er  or  perisli  in  a  timo  or  \v;iy 
in  wliicli  God  sees  and  knows  that  it  is  not  l)es(, 
not  good,  and  only  evil,  for  us?  —  and  yet  tlie 
sparrow  falleth  not  to  the  ground  witliout  him. 
In  our  ignorance  of  what  a  day  may  hring  forth, 
are  we  liable,  not  alone  to  what  our  Father  may 
appoint,  but  to  what  may  be  done  in  defiance  of 
his  will  and  contravention  of  his  })urpose  con- 
cerning us  ?  If  so,  what  or  where  is  our  ground 
of  trust  for  the  life  that  now  is?  Where  shall 
■we  roll  off  the  burden  of  agonizing  solicitude  ? 
How  shall  we  dismiss  our  care  because  God  car- 
cth  for  us?  Our  faith  in  Providence  must  ex- 
tend to  human  agency  no  less  than  to  the  so- 
called  direct  action  of  the  Almighty ;  else  it  can 
have  but  little  practical  influence  as^  regards  the 
present  life,  can  be  of  little  avail  in  evil  times 
and  among  evil  men. 

There  are  indeed  mysteries  in  Providence, — 
heights  which  we  cannot  scale,  depths  which  we 
cannot  fathom.  We  seek  only  to  look  between 
the  leaves  of  the  immeasurable  volume,  where 
Jesus  has  unloosed  the  seals.  I  have  barely  en- 
deavored to  develop  what  we  must  believe,  if  we 
would  receive  our  Saviour's  lessons,  and  inil)il)e 
his  spirit,  of  implicit  trust  and  solf-surrender. 
AVhcre  Reason  fails,  let  Faith  usurp  her  place, 
and  let  us  rest  in  the  calm  assurance  that  what 
we  know  not  now  we  shall  know  hereafter.    This 


438  ALL    POWER    god's. 

we  do  know  now,  —  that  our  times  are  in  our 
Father's  hands,  our  path  through  life  marked 
and  guarded  by  his  watchful  providence,  and 
that  to  the  soul  that  stays  itself  on  him  all  things 
must  work  together  for  good.  And  in  the  des- 
tined home  of  our  spirits,  while  the  heavens  shall 
declare  his  righteousness,  the  dark  forms  of  evil 
will  disclose  their  ministries  of  love ;  from  the 
caverns  of  the  grave  will  come  voices  of  praise ; 
and  even  shi  —  mercifully  punished  in  time  that 
it  might  not  weigh  down  our  souls  to  perdition, 
repented,  forsaken,  forgiven  —  will  only  swell 
with  deepex'  loy  the  anthem  of  unceasing  adora- 
tion* 


THE    END. 


Date  Due 

. 

f 

Mm 


f-:'  4-* 


is-:"?-^' 


